


Highway Cloudbusting

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Series: Highway Cloudbusting [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Homophobia, M/M, Sexual Content, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:26:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 89,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sick of politics and business as usual, England decides to indulge a rare moment of spontaneity and go on a roadtrip. He should have known that America would want to tag along. And they both should have known that the trip would set them down a path they couldn't turn away from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ February 11, 2010. 
> 
> So this was originally going to be a one-shot, but it ended up being epically long, so I've decided to make it into a chapterfic. Warning: Possible cliches and predictability. Also deals with issues of sexuality and coming out, and may have mildly offensive speech in it. Please note that the opinions of the characters are not necessarily those of the author.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trip starts, and it takes only two hours for England to regret his decision.

England could agree that, in theory, the meetings between nations could be good for many number of reasons. It could help reestablish and reaffirm global unity and enforce individual relations between nations by forcing contact between them. Even if the nations themselves weren’t granted legislative or military power, and had to answer to their bosses, there could be a lot said for being able to come together and discuss issues as an international, mutual effort.  
  
Of course, that was all well and good provided people _actually got along._  
  
It was the third meeting that week that’d lasted only about fifteen minutes before descending into political chaos and mudslinging. And England hated the headaches these meetings caused him more than anything else in the world. Everyone shouting at one another, sometimes physical violence (no matter how good the security, Switzerland seemed to always find a way to sneak in a gun or two).  
  
Tapping his pen absently against the papers in front of him, England cushioned his chin in his hand and sighed. Normally, he’d be right up there with the rest of them, arguing and bickering—especially with America, who, as always, was off spouting stupid, foolish things—but he was just too tired. Exhausted and worn-thin, England had little patience for this kind of ridiculousness.  
  
Most, if not all, of the nations present looked ill—battling colds or wounds or just looking as exhausted as England felt. They were in a recession and it seemed that things were only getting worse over time, if the cynical aspect won out England’s mindset. Perhaps that’s what lead to the fighting and the general feeling of crabbiness among all the nations.  
  
Well, England was tired of it.  
  
He rubbed the base of his hand against his forehead, letting out a loud, insufferable sigh as the bickering and political posturing continued.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
By the fifth meeting, everyone was ready to start a new war, it seemed. No one could say anything civil. Not that that was too different from most of their meetings, but in particular the last week had been rather vicious, even for someone like England, who was far too used to fighting with his siblings to usually notice or even care about bickering in meetings.  
  
Perhaps that was why England found himself wanting to stay in his hotel room and not leave at all. Hidden beneath the cover of his large comforter, he squished his face against his pillow and let out another sigh and the softest of curses. His phone kept ringing, probably his boss or civil servants or possibly Scotland calling (because he always seemed to have a sixth sense to call whenever England was unhappy and make it _so, so much worse_ ). His boss had actually suggested that perhaps England should take a few days off, to relax. It seemed that it was evident to everyone he worked for that he was exhausted, more so than usual.  
  
On his bedside table, his cell phone flashed at him, beeping every so often to let him know he had voicemails waiting.  
  
He turned off his phone.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“And where the heck do you think you’re going?” a voice called out behind him.  
  
England paused, rental car key in hand and his customary frown on his lips. He hesitated, debating whether or not to keep walking and pretend that he hadn’t heard anyone calling out to him. But, he knew that was a foolish thing to do, considering the voice belonged to America and if England dared to ignore America then he’d have an even louder, more obnoxiously whining America to deal with, and England’s throbbing head just couldn’t handle that. He turned around to face the younger nation.  
  
“What?” he asked, because this seemed like the reasonable thing to ask, and a good way to avoid America’s question. He spoke with a more accusatory tone than he’d intended, but made no sign on his face that it was, “What are you, my nanny all of a sudden?”  
  
“You just whipped out of there,” America shrugged, hands in his pockets—the very picture of nonchalance, despite the smallest vein of curiosity in his tone that America could never truly be rid of, no matter how hard he tried. “I thought if you were going to McDonald’s I’d just hitch a ride with you. I want a milkshake.”  
  
“I’m so sure,” England muttered, rubbing his temple and trying to banish away the reworkings of a throbbing headache, compounding the one he’d gotten three days ago and still had yet to leave him. He sighed. “I wasn’t going to get fast food,” he relented. “I was just going to… drive.”  
  
“Drive,” America repeated, as if England had suggested something absurd. “Look, I always liked just driving around and stuff but you know that gas is kinda expensive right now and—”  
  
“I don’t care,” England balked, arms crossed. He turned away, trying to get away from America and hoping that the blatant dismissal wouldn’t be lost on the boy. But, predictably, America kept on his tail, much to England’s chagrin.  
  
“Why do you want to drive?” America asked, following after him. “Where will you go? There are some nice parks on the other side of the river, but… if you’re going to go to a bar, it’d probably be better to just take the subway, knowing you.”  
  
England shook his head. “I just need to clear my head.”  
  
America let out a soft sigh that caused England to pause. America, too, looked just as haggard as everyone else in the building, in some ways more so. When England turned back to look at him, the other nation was rubbing the back of his neck, his lips quirked downwards as he thought.  
  
“I guess you’re pretty sick of everything going on in there, too, huh?” America asked.  
  
“I’ve blocked most of it out at this point,” England said with grit teeth as he recalled the last few days. He began walking again and America trotted to his side to walk along beside him. They walked in a thoughtful silence for a moment before England said, “I just need a break. That was the last meeting for a while and I don’t particularly want to get on a plane right away and fly back home. So I figured I’d just drive.”  
  
They were reaching England’s car now and America stopped abruptly. Taken off guard, England stopped suddenly as well, swiveling to look at the nation and see what’d caused him pause.  
  
“You mean _that_ kinda drive?” America asked, looking surprised. “Like, a really long drive?”  
  
“Yes,” England said. He scratched his chin, feeling self-conscious under America’s scrutiny and feeling even more self-conscious for feeling self-conscious (why should he care what the daft fool thought?). “I figured I’d just drive around—get out of the city.”  
  
“So like a road trip?” America asked, perking up a little.  
  
England eyed him, not sure if he much liked the boy’s expression. He cleared his throat. “Yes. I suppose. I’d be nice to drive _on my own._ ”  
  
He hoped the stress would not be lost on America. But he should have known better.  
  
America perked up even more, grinning his bright smile that never seemed to leave America’s face, even when he was trying to be serious (which was a rare enough occurrence). That perpetually earnest expression never truly left his eyes, always sunshine and optimism shining except only in the worst of times, and even then, only temporarily.  
  
“Cool! I’ll go with you!” he said, enthusiastic to a fault.  
  
England let out a soft sigh. “If it’s all the same, America… I don’t think I want company right now.”  
  
“No way. You are not allowed to go on a spontaneous road trip through my country _without_ me, England.” America looked slightly put out by the mere suggestion, and there was a flash of hurt in his eyes at being rejected.  
  
“I’d very much like to be alone,” England said, hoping that perhaps the gentle route would work better than the dismissive approach.  
  
“No way, dude,” America repeated and seemed unaware of the full-body twitch England issued upon being called ‘dude’. America shook his head, adamant and eyes only on England. “Without me, you’ll totally miss out on the awesome stuff in my country. And you can’t be alone in someone else’s country. That’s just _depressing._ ”  
  
England’s eyebrow twitched. “I really hadn’t wanted to go anywhere in particular. I don’t need to go to your tourist traps…”  
  
“Come oooooon,” America whined, and behaved in a way that made England feel as if he’d kicked him while he was down. America worried his lower lip a moment and said, “It’s _my_ country. I can help you relax if I go along! No tourist traps! We can just do whatever you want to do, even if it’s stupid and boring like sitting around in a yarn shop—”  
  
“—I do not—” England began, interrupting and bristling.  
  
But America continued, undeterred, “—or drinking a lot! I’ll make your trip totally awesome!”  
  
“I very much doubt that,” England muttered, then said louder, “Why do you want to go so badly?”  
  
America shrugged, but the way he averted his gaze made England know for sure that America knew exactly why he wanted to, but he also didn’t want to say so.  
  
England sighed. “I want to be alone.”  
  
America almost pouted, and it annoyed England how easily that expression seemed to work with America’s boyish face, still young and hopeful despite all the hardships, despite the heavy bags under his eyes and the slight pallor to his skin.  
  
“I could show you all the cool places to go and—”  
  
“I’d really rather not,” England said, feeling even more annoyed.  
  
America stared at England a moment, his face scrunching up before it seemed to sag. England so rarely got to see America as anything but an overly enthusiastic, overly optimistic, and overly idealistic fool, that seeing him deflate now over something as trivial as going on a spontaneous road trip was almost upsetting for England. He tried to still the way something quivered in his chest upon seeing something that could only be an expression of a kicked puppy, crestfallen and discouraged.  
  
“Well,” America said, still smiling though the shrug and the averted gaze made England believe that America was going for forced nonchalance and quiet pessimistic acceptance. “I guess you wouldn’t like the stuff I’d show you anyway, right?” He spoke in a way that demonstrated that he was one hundred percent sure that what he was saying was the truth, “I mean, I guess you could bring me along so I can suggest things and you’d know what to _not_ do. Cause I guess most things would be tacky and dumb to you… or whatever.”  
  
England’s mouth twitched and he swallowed the apology trying to weasel past his throat. He wasn’t even sure what he was meant to be apologizing for.  
  
“Well, uh,” America said, taking a step back. “I know my opinion doesn’t mean much, but you should go north for a little while before you go anywhere else. It’s, uh… it’s nice up there.”  
  
It took a moment of silence after that from America for England to lift his gaze again and meet America’s eyes. They looked at one another, in silence, England frowning and America worrying his lower lip in thought.  
  
Finally, England scoffed and looked away. “Oh, very well. You can come. It is your country, after all.”  
  
“Yay!” America cheered, and even threw his arms up in the air in his enthusiasm. The transformation from saddened to happy was a bit disconcerting and England twitched for the third time. He would have supposed that America had just played him, but he didn’t think that America had a disingenuous bone in his body, not truly, and after centuries of living England could tell an act from genuine emotion any day. Instantly, the downtrodden, unhappy boy was gone and replaced, once again, and somewhat obnoxiously so, with his typical over-the-top manner. “You won’t be sorry, England!”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
They’d only been driving for two hours and already England was sorry.  
  
On America’s insistence, England had left his rental car behind and taken America’s truck instead. America’d claimed it would save them money anyway, and his car was “better than that sissy thing”. So now England was stuck being navigator (a name America cheerfully gave to him) and rolling through a land he didn’t quite recognize beyond the vague shadows of the days centuries past. And he was stuck wanting to kill America, who was, as always, oblivious. He sang along to the radio, some obnoxious, crackling pop song that England had never heard before and wished he didn’t have to hear now. America sang off-key.  
  
In the two hours, they’d gotten stuck in traffic, nearly run over a rabbit, had to pull over to console a distraught America over said almost death, and listened to dozens of songs that all sounded exactly the same. England had also had to sit through a frantic call between America and one of his higher-ups wondering where the heck he’d disappeared to (“I’m strengthening foreign relations and reconnecting with my roots at the same time! Oh, and getting my economy stimulated—no that wasn’t a euphemism, ew!” had been America’s fabulous excuse).  
  
“Can’t you turn that down?” England demanded, glaring down at the radio.  
  
America stopped mid-chorus, swiveling his head to peer at England in open shock before he tucked the volume back down a few notches. Still ear-splittingly loud, but better. England would have to make do.  
  
England tilted his face away, resting against the side of the car, looking out the window absently. He didn’t care about the traveling, just the fact that he was doing something that didn’t involve politics. The fact that he had the obnoxious nation along with him was inconvenient and a wrench in his original plans, but it could be worse. At the very least, he reasoned, America wouldn’t willingly bring up anything political or upsetting, as the dense boy was more interested in being silly and perfectly lovely—  
  
England derailed his thoughts and closed his eyes.  
  
“Wake me up when we get somewhere, okay?” England asked.  
  
“Awww, you aren’t going to look at the scenery?” America asked, pausing in his loud rendition of another pop song.  
  
England shook his head. “No.”  
  
“Suit yourself! It’s pretty and awesome if I do say so myself.”  
  
“Of course you would, you fool.”  
  
England was silent after that and didn’t say anything, though it was impossible to sleep with the loud racket coming from the radio and from America. He listened to him and listened to the hum of the highway.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
He was starting to fall not to sleep but to something akin to a quiet contemplation when America suddenly interrupted him, as was his secret talent (and, England suspected, a pastime he delighted in). America shook his shoulder, muttering out his name a few times as he did so. Many times America forgot his own strength, so the slight jostling was actually rather jarring and discombobulating.  
  
“I’m awake, damn it,” England muttered, opening his eyes to direct a glare towards the driver.  
  
America retracted his hand, grinning that damned earnest smile of his. And then he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder before turning his attention back towards the road in front of him. “Look.”  
  
England’s eyes narrowed but he obeyed, turning his attention past America, leaning slightly forward to look past America’s bulk.  
  
There was a pause.  
  
America, sensing the silence not as admiration but as confusion said, “I wanted you to see the sunset. It’s pretty out here, yeah?”  
  
“Yes, I see it,” England said but said no more, his lips pursed as he looked out towards the sunset. It was brightly colored and beautiful, kissing the hills and dipping behind tree lines. He saw America turn to look at him and shifted his eyes away from the window to look at America. He cracked half of a smile. “Pay attention to the road, you.”  
  
America grinned, blue eyes wide, before he did was he was told, looking straight ahead again.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Do you think that’s a good motel to stay in?” America asked, hunched over his steering wheel to peer up at the sign of the motel they were fast approaching.  
  
England squinted too before just letting out a sigh. So far, he wasn’t feeling quite as relaxed as he’d hoped, and he blamed it on the American’s presence for ruining that. It was late, a few hours after sunset, and the headlights ahead of the truck illuminated the road ahead and the night sky. England was tired, had been tired for a long time, and at this rate just wished to sleep.  
  
“I can’t be arsed to think of a better place. This will do.”  
  
“… ‘Kay,” America agreed, and seemed relieved with the idea of not having to drive anymore. He veered off the road and pulled abruptly into the parking lot.  
  
Once parked, America shifted the truck into park and cut the engine. They sat in silence a moment before England unbuckled the seatbelt and slipped from the truck, grasping the small bag he’d brought with him to the meeting for the sake of slipping away unnoticed after it was over (his original plan to slink away and be alone was completely blasted to bits now, but it couldn’t be helped now).  
  
America followed after him, hoisting up a bag he’d hastily packed after convincing England to use his truck instead of his wussy rental car. The duffle was bigger than England’s, but, naturally, America carried it without problems.  
  
They entered the motel, the light bulb above them flickering almost threateningly as they walked. England eyed it with thinly veiled revulsion before striding up to the counter to get two rooms.  
  
“Hey, might as well get one, right?” America called out from the other side of the room, where he was observing the rack of brochures advertising tourist attractions and restaurants. He waved a few at England, grinning. “It’d save money!”  
  
England found it laughable that suddenly America was so concerned with saving money—especially after arguing with his employers that he was having his economy stimulated this way—but other than rolling his eyes, did not protest America’s demands. Honestly, he spoiled the boy far too much.  
  
“One room, please,” he told the bored-looking teller and tapped his fingers along the counter, slanting an angry look towards America when he laughed a bit too loudly over a brochure. “With two beds.”  
  
A few minutes later found England and America opening the door to their room. America wasted no time in chucking his bag clear across the room and taking a running start towards the beds. With a loud, completely unnecessary grunt, he flew through the air and landed belly-first onto one of the beds, testing its springs or, England cynically suspected, trying to crash the bed through the ceiling to see if he _could._  
  
“This is great,” America cheered, rolling about on his bed with such glee that England had to remind himself that America was not five years old, no matter how much he acted that way. No, he mentally corrected, at five America had actually been rather sweet—now he was just an overgrown man-child and a moron on top of that.  
  
“Hm,” England grunted, snapping the door shut with a kick of his foot and moving towards the other bed, dropping his bag onto the floral printed blanket, crisply tucked along with the starched white sheets over the bed. The mattress was a bit too soft, England thought, as he sat down, slipping off his shoes so he could wiggle his toes against the scratchy carpet, but it would have to do.  
  
America, meanwhile, kicked off his shoes with such force that they crashed rather loudly against the wall. England gave him a withering, deadpan look that he wished would strike some chord of common decency in America’s heart, but the foolish boy was immune to England’s prickliness and merely responded with one of his wide grins.  
  
England almost wished America had kept his shoes on, however, as in the next moment he leapt from his bed and onto England’s, all laughter and wiggly, smelly toes that struck against England’s side and knocked him over. He gasped, surprised, and then his nose wrinkled as America’s large feet pressed against England’s belly, as America rolled about on England’s bed, making himself comfortable.  
  
“I _beg_ your pardon!” England shouted.  
  
“You’re pardoned!” America declared, triumphant.  
  
England shoved his feet off him and America flipped over a bit, laughing heartily. His toes wiggled about and made themselves comfortable in England’s sheets and England gave him a half-hearted glare.  
  
“So, what do you want to do?” America asked, beaming.  
  
“I was under the impression we’d stopped for the night to sleep,” England muttered, eyebrows furrowed.  
  
America rolled around on the bed before finding a comfortable position on his stomach, tucking his hands under his chin and cushioning them so he could look up at the seated England. He watched England adjust his tie before thinking better of it and slowly unknotting it. America’s eyes stayed on his throat for a long moment, before shifting to watch England’s fingers pull the red tie from under his collar.  
  
“That’s boring,” he said, seeming to remember himself. He forced his eyes upwards to meet England’s eyes as the British man folded up his tie and tucked it snuggly into his bag. “Come oooooon, England.”  
  
“Shush, you noisy brat,” England muttered but his words came out more exhausted than venomous.  
  
“Hey,” America said after a moments of blessed silence. England turned to give the stupid lad some attention, and watched as America fiddled around with the remote. “Want to watch a movie?”  
  
“That costs money,” England pointed out. “I thought you wanted to save money.”  
  
“Well we can waste the money we saved by getting one room!” America said pleasantly. “Come oooon.”  
  
“Stop that,” England instructed, one eye twitching.  
  
America grinned, and repeated: “Come ooooooon.”  
  
“Fine, give me that,” England barked, snatching the remote from America’s hand and grumbling obscenities and curses under his breath. America, still grinning, wiggled over to England’s side.  
  
“Yay!” America said, loudly.  
  
“Ugh,” England grunted, still regretting being stuck with such an obnoxious American. He turned on the television and navigated through the motel’s screen, browsing through the movie selections.  
  
America watched for a moment before swiveling his head to look up at England. “I want popcorn.”  
  
“Well that’s just wonderful for you, isn’t it?” England muttered. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there isn’t any popcorn here.”  
  
“But there’s a store across the street!” America countered, perking up. “I can go buy some. And there was a coffee shop, too.”  
  
England closed his eyes and sighed. “Very well.”  
  
“I’ll get you something, too,” the other said, rolling off England’s bed and landing on all fours on the floor before straightening. He stretched his arms above his head and his shirt lifted, exposing a small spot of sun-kissed stomach, golden skin and the smallest trail of hair leading down from his belly button and to his waistline.  
  
England’s eyes flickered and he averted his gaze back to the television. “Yes, of course.”  
  
“Pick out a good movie, England! I’ll be back soon!” America said with a jaunty little wave before he was dashing from the room. He was just out the door before he did a sudden U-turn, and with a sheepish grin, grabbed up the shoes he’d forgotten. And his wallet.  
  
England watched him go, frowning, before turning his attention back towards the movie selection. As per usual, the movies were all American and looked like utter tripe. Moody, England muttered more curses to himself.  
  
“Damn brat,” he said, and wasn’t exactly sure why he was cursing America—probably simply for existing and causing him so much grief. All he knew was that he was tired of it already and it was only day one.  
  
He chose a horror movie, if only to extract some kind of revenge.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“The tea smelled gross and was more expensive than the coffee so I got you coffee instead,” America announced, loudly, as he burst back into the room. The door slammed against the wall before rebounding and snapping back into its lock as America walked purposefully towards England.  
  
England rolled his eyes but accepted the proffered coffee. “I see.”  
  
And then America kicked off his shoes once again and made himself comfortable in England’s bed, snuggling into the covers and grinning. “So, what movie is it?”  
  
England opened his mouth but America distracted himself with opening the bag of pre-popped popcorn and crunching into it loudly. England watched with mourning as a steady stream of crumbs fell onto his sheets.  
  
With a sigh, he sat on the other side of America, and told him the name of the movie.  
  
America froze with a handful of popcorn close to his mouth. His eyes widened a little and England had to smother the superior smirk he felt tugging at the corners of his mouth. Instead, he sipped his coffee and wished it was tea.  
  
“It was the cheapest movie,” England lied, keeping his voice intentionally gentle. “It’s already ordered, but if you’d rather…”  
  
“Great!” America said, interrupting England and grinning as if he was not already terrified. “Unpause this sucker!”  
  
“Hm,” England said and did as was commanded.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Twenty minutes in and America had already shrieked three times, loud and ear-splitting. England watched America out of the corner of his eye as the boy twitched and smothered his face into a pillow whenever the tempo of the music sped up, only to peek scared blue eyes out again. When something frightening or surprising (or stupid, England couldn’t help but think) happened on screen, America would shout again, jumping so suddenly that the entire bed frame shook and slammed against the wall. England couldn’t help but hope that no one was in the room next door, to hear the bed rattling and America continually shouting.  
  
England had serious doubts about his decision for revenge. He’d forgotten how much it was torture to deal with a frightened America. He hoped that the stupid boy didn’t wet the bed in his carrying on.  
  
Something jumped out onscreen and America, predictably, screamed and then flung his arms around England, as the pillow was no longer satisfactory. England let out a soft sound of surprise as the bulk pressed up against him.  
  
England unfortunately had been finishing the last few gulps of coffee and instead found it falling from his hand and pooling across the blankets over his lap.  
  
“Jesus—America!”  
  
America wailed, tears in the corners of his eyes as he buried his face into England’s neck, clinging to him for all he was worth. If England hadn’t been strong himself, he was certain that the stupid American would have snapped a few of his bones or at the very least dislocated them.  
  
“E-England,” America whimpered, his breath hot against England’s skin.  
  
The older nation sighed as he felt the younger’s hands wrap into the fabric of his shirt. With a long suffering sigh, he set his empty coffee cup on the bedside table, and then lifted a hand to pat America on the back. It quivered under his touch and America’s hold on him tightened, tethering him to the bed with him. England smoothed his hand along America’s back, comforting him as best he could. Aside from the occasional whimper against his neck, which was all too distracting, America stayed silent.  
  
“Shall I turn it off?” England asked, after a few long minutes in the movie passed without any of America’s attention on it.  
  
America shook his head. “Heroes never quit!”  
  
England was torn between coddling and throttling the boy, and settled with threading his fingers through his golden hair, petting him a little. America made a small noise that wasn’t a whimper and clung to him, seeming to appreciate the silent comfort.  
  
“I don’t suppose you’re enjoying the telly from this position are you?” England asked, and for the first time that day he didn’t sound annoyed, more slightly amused. “I can’t imagine you can see much when you’re just pressed into my shoulder.”  
  
America stayed still a moment before he drew back, eyes the very epitome of fearful, bright and wide and little tears collected in the corners of his eyes. England restrained himself from lifting a thumb and brushing them away for him. Despite the obvious discomfort on his face, he flashed one of his smiles, the ones that were so uniquely America, and even looked a bit sheepish.  
  
“Oh, yeah,” he said, and then hesitantly, but with great force, turned his attention back towards the television. He still clung to England and England, because he was such a good man and possibly because he had a martyr complex, allowed him to do so.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road trip continues, and is completely unexciting in any way, because all England wants to do is go to a bar. Meanwhile, they're both horribly repressed.

Birdsong woke England in the morning. He listened to the sound for a long moment as his mind returned to its senses. Blinking, bleary, he swiveled his head towards the clock radio on the bedside table and instead met with America’s chaotic golden hair. England stared at it for a long moment before his sleep-foggy mind recognized that, yes, the weight over his stomach was indeed America’s arm and the other nation was indeed snuggled up against him, curling around him slightly and pinning him to the bed as if afraid that the other would try to slip away from him.  
  
England stared up at the ceiling a long moment, wondering what time it was and wondering how much longer America would sleep. He frowned, and felt America shift closer to him, head pillowed on his chest. England tilted his head down, observing the boy.   
  
“Hey,” he said, raising a hand and tapping him on the shoulder, wishing to wake him without jarring him. “America. Wake up.”   
  
America grunted and shifted, momentarily tightening his hold on England before blinking sleepy blue eyes open and staring at England’s pajama top in great confusion and curiosity. Then he lifted his head up and caught sight of England. He blinked, once more, before lifting his own hand to rub the sleep from his eyes. He yawned and England’s nose crinkled as America blasted his face with morning breath that vaguely smelled like packaged popcorn.   
  
“Hey, England,” America greeted.   
  
“Don’t ‘hey’ me, get off,” England said, squirming under his weight. “Christ, you’re heavy.”  
  
“I am not!” America whined but rolled off him. He sat up, taking the blankets with him and England shivered at the loss of both sources of warmth. He sat up, too. America stretched, grinning, before slanting a look towards his unused bed. “I guess I fell asleep after the movie, huh?”  
  
“You were crying,” England said and couldn’t help but smirk slightly.   
  
“No way!” America protested, puffing up his cheeks and turning his attentions back towards England. “I was just protecting you from any serial killers who haunt the motels of New England.”  
  
“I’m so sure,” England drawled and felt his smirk soften a bit—almost. Momentarily. He waved his hand in dismissal. “I’d be shocked if you remembered anything about the movie after the first half hour. Though, to be fair, there wasn’t much else to the plot.”   
  
“They caught the murderer, right?” America asked, hopeful.   
  
England shook his head with great gravity. “He’s still out there. Who knows when he will strike next?” He wiggled his fingers towards America, and tried his best to look horrified. “In fact, he could be right here, stalking us! Woooo.”   
  
America, instead of getting frightened like he would have the night before, only laughed. The daylight gave him strength, made him glow. “Real funny, England.”   
  
England shrugged, and watched as America stood and strolled over to his bed. England regarded him with silent fascination as America punched the pillow a couple of times and threw the other one on to the floor, picked it up, and threw it back on again. He crumbled up the sheets and threw them and the blankets around, mussing up his bed stupendously.   
  
“What are you doing?” England asked, one thick eyebrow raised.   
  
“Making it look like I slept in my own bed!” America explained, frowning. “I don’t want the housekeepers to think that I slept in yours.”   
  
England gave him a slightly strangled look for a moment, trying to comprehend what the other nation had just said. “You… don’t want people to think you slept in mine… even though you _did._ ”  
  
“But not like _that_ ,” America insisted.  
  
“You don’t want people to assume we slept together,” England said slowly, trying to work this out. The idea was ridiculous. He had the ridiculous urge to laugh, to think that a silly boy like America would take something as innocuous and innocent as him crying over a movie to be anything but that.  
  
America laughed, but did not protest England’s words. England’s frown, if possible, deepened. He observed the boy, tossing the blankets around before, content with his work, sat down on the bed, his face slightly pink from what England realized, with some surprise, must have been embarrassment.   
  
He looked up at England, and quickly that strange vulnerable look was gone, replaced with a cheery grin. “Well, it bothers me when people make assumptions, so I’m going to eliminate their ability to just assume we slept together last night!”   
  
“Why would that be the first thought that would spring to anyone’s mind? Yours included.” England was too mystified to take pleasure in the fact that America almost sputtered at that. “I hadn’t realized you’d care,” England said, and shook his head. “Besides, with the way you were shouting and making the bed thump about, who knows if…”  
  
He trailed off upon seeing America’s shocked, and vaguely embarrassed expression.   
  
“You don’t think they really…?” America asked and it was unlike him to trail off. It was always a surprise the selective reasoning America had, always choosing the strangest times to become oddly prudish.   
  
England blew out a hot stream of air, cheeks puffing up before deflating. “No, America. I was joking. I hardly think that anyone would really care.”   
  
America threw the blanket around some more before observing his work and not looking at England. “I guess.”   
  
England watched America, red-faced, as he stood up and stepped towards his bag, digging around for the day’s fresh clothes. England shook his head and turned his attention towards making his own bed and ignoring America’s strange antics.   
  
Afraid of people making assumptions? He was the one reading into a completely innocent night, the one assuming that everyone else would make assumptions.  
  
But then again, America was known for his hypocrisy so England really shouldn’t be surprised. But he couldn’t help it; he was surprised. England marveled silently at his cognitive dissonance.   
  
America noticed immediately what England was doing, however, as the older nation attempted to make his bed. “Hey—! Don’t.”   
  
“What?” England asked, looking up at the boy who clutched at a pair of socks like a lifeline.   
  
“You have to keep your bed unmade, too,” America protested. He gave England what America most likely suspected to be a very convincing look. England was less than impressed.   
  
“And why’s that?” England drawled.   
  
“Because I just messed mine up!”   
  
“And so is your prerogative. I, however—”  
  
“England, you caaaaaaaaan’t,” America whined.  
  
“Oh don’t start up again with the whining, honestly.”   
  
America pouted and looked as if he was about to keep whining.   
  
“I don’t see why this worries you so much,” England said, and meant it. He puzzled over the boy’s behavior on a regular basis, but this was yet another thing he was unused to. “You and I both know that you sleeping in my bed last night wasn’t in any way perverse and it’s… not something you and I would ever do, either.”  
  
With pursed lips, suddenly annoyed and unsure why, England turned back towards his bed and fluffed up the pillows. America was there, suddenly, grabbing his wrist and staring at him with too large, too blue eyes.   
  
“But it’s—”  
  
“It’s what?”  
  
“Well,” America said, uneasily, “You know, dude, don’t make me say it.”   
  
“Goodness, America,” England muttered, shaking his head. “I hadn’t realized it bothered you this much.”  
  
“It doesn’t _bother_ me,” America protested.  
  
“You cannot say that when you’re physically preventing me from fixing up my bed,” England said, eyes widened slightly. America let go of his hand, looking as he’d been slapped. England cleared his throat. “I don’t understand where this is coming from.”  
  
“I dunno,” America admitted, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s just—ya know.”  
  
“No. I don’t know.”   
  
“It’s just. This.” He waved his hands around haphazardly.  
  
England’s eyes narrowed. “Two men sharing a bed?”  
  
America blushed. “Not exactly.”   
  
“… Two _people_ sharing a bed?” England asked.  
  
America grinned, sheepish.   
  
“You’re kidding me,” England said, and did indeed look rather shocked by the admission—though America still wasn’t saying anything. “You really are something, America.”  
  
“Ha ha, why do you say that?” America asked with a laugh that sounded mostly genuine.  
  
“On the one hand you and your culture seem to be hyper-obsessed with sex and then on the other hand you can stand there and get flustered over the idea of a couple sharing a bed.”   
  
“You’re the one hyper-obsessed with sex, old man, not me!” America protested, and this time his laugh was one hundred percent genuine because the booming sound made England’s eye twitch and the urge to throttle him return.   
  
“That,” England said through grit teeth, “Is beside the point.”   
  
“Right,” America said. “The point is—don’t make your bed.”  
  
“I do not take orders from you,” England said with a disdainful sniff.   
  
“Come oooon,” America whined, shifting from foot to foot. “It’s already—I dunno, I don’t want the housekeepers to think anything… or something. It’s even worse cause we’re both guys!”   
  
England gave him a slightly incredulous look. “Are you honestly—”  
  
“It’s not that I think it’s a bad thing or anything, on principle!” America said with a shake of his head. “I’m not like those—other people. Yes, I know what they’ve said,” America protested before England could open his mouth and protest, “I pay attention to news, ya know.”  
  
He shoved his hands into his pockets, looking away from England.   
  
“Besides, it’s not like I’m blind to some of the relationships among the nations and… stuff. It’s not my business what anybody else does or what anybody else likes—so yeah. I just don’t want people to think that I’m—or that—” words, for once, seemed to escape America. He worked his mouth, trying to find the words to explain why it bothered him. “I just don’t want people to make judgments and… stuff, because of something stupid or easily misinterpreted. If it’s that way, I want to tell them, not for them to see something and assume. Everybody always just assumes stuff about me. I hate it.”  
  
England thought over these words, and then rolled his eyes. “You’re...”   
  
“Just because I’m nice to another guy doesn’t mean I want to sleep with them,” America muttered to his chest, ducking his head and crossing his arms, looking very much like a petulant child. “That’s dumb.”  
  
England patted his shoulder with one hand, giving the younger nation what he hoped was a comforting smile. “France has been saying things again, hasn’t he?”   
  
“Maybe,” America muttered.  
  
“I thought so,” England mused, because it certainly seemed as if it was sparked on by something that damned Frenchman had said. He was always making lewd comments, though half the time America didn’t even realize—it seemed as if this statement, whatever it was, had struck a nerve. “What did he say?”  
  
“That I’m so chummy with everybody,” America said, scraping his toe against the carpet. “He said that I must secretly want into y—everybody’s pants.” He trailed off, and added, somewhat lamely, “Or something.”   
  
“He said that,” England said, deadpanned.  
  
America nodded, face vaguely pink.   
  
“As if he has any right to talk,” England said with a shake of his head. He patted America on the shoulder again. “No, my dear lad, you shouldn’t listen to anything that stupid frog says. It’s a whole lot of rubbish.”  
  
“I don’t want people to assume that just cause I’m nice to people means I want to sleep with them,” America huffed, crossing his arms. “I need to like the person—er, her. I need to like her first, ya know?”   
  
“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, America,” England dismissed, patting his shoulder once again. He shrugged his own shoulder. “I know that your actions are strictly platonic. It’s France with his stupid, perverted mind that always assumes that every action has a sexual ulterior motive.”   
  
“And like I said, there’s nothing wrong with it. If you love somebody, you love somebody, right?”  
  
“Right,” England said, and his voice came out much softer than he’d intended. He cleared his throat quickly, and reiterated, “Yes, that’s right.”   
  
“But even so, my people are torn up about the issue,” America said quietly, “Just like every other issue.”  
  
“You aren’t the only nation battling with this,” England told him.   
  
America nodded. “And just—the way some of the people in my country act, about it. With all the assumptions and judgments—from both sides. I just. I dunno.” He shrugged. “I’m tired of it.”  
  
“You shouldn’t be ashamed of it,” England soothed.   
  
“I’m not ashamed!” America defended quickly, frowning. “I could never be ashamed of my people. They’re my people.” He scratched the back of his head. “I mean—it sucks that just because I have a good friendship with a guy that suddenly means I want to sleep with him. I mean, Japan and I are close but that doesn’t mean we’re about to jump one another, ya know?” He added, quickly, grinning up at England, “And like I’d ever want to sleep with someone like you, ha ha!”  
  
“Ah,” England said, recoiling slightly. He squinted at America a moment, then shook his head. England cleared his throat. “In any case. Don’t dwell on it too much. France probably said all that to try and convince you to sleep with him, too.”   
  
“I know that.” America shrugged one shoulder. “Apparently he spent most of my revolution trying to seduce me and I didn’t even realize.”  
  
“He—WHAT?” England shouted, and America gave him a slightly bewildered expression. England turned away quickly, controlling himself, voice terse and clipped. “That sounds like him, yes.”   
  
“But for anything like that, I gotta like the person! And more than just being ‘chummy’ with them, but because I really do like them—er, her! More than a friend. Or something.”   
  
England was quiet for a moment. “Of course. I’m not doubting you, America. You’re a smart lad, though often it seems you’re seeking to prove that belief wrong.”   
  
America shrugged one shoulder, shifting slightly. “It’s just annoying. As soon as I have a close friendship with another guy, France and other people have to go and say something snarky.”  
  
“Indeed.” England coughed into his hand. “So it’s alright, yes? The maids won’t know who stayed in this room last.”   
  
“… That’s true,” America finally relented and his sunny smile was back. “Let’s go get some breakfast?”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Breakfast came about an hour later, however, and from a McDonald’s drive-thru as they continued their journey through America’s country. England drove this time, as America was still riled up and yet exhausted from the night before. America chomped loudly into his egg mcmuffin as if famished and England restrained himself from making some kind of snappy comment about it.   
  
“Do you care where I go?” England asked, and wasn’t quite sure why he was asking.  
  
America looked up from his egg mcmuffin, a bit of cheese clinging to the corner of his mouth. “What do you want to do?”  
  
“I don’t really wish to do anything,” England admitted. “I said it before. I just want to drive. I don’t need tourist things.”   
  
“Well, back roads are good, then. Just keep doing what you’re doing,” America said around a mouthful of food, shooting crumbs at England so that they settled in his hair, on his clothes, and in his lap.   
  
“Swallow before answering, idiot,” England snapped.  
  
America swallowed the rest of his food and took a large gulp of his drink before grinning.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
They drove for a few hours, eastward. England knew America’s geography, vaguely, if pressed, but overall was unsure where he was driving to and not actually caring all that much. Since his companion wasn’t saying anything, England determined he wasn’t about to drive them off a cliff or anything like that, so they drove in relative silence. America must have been exhausted from the night before, still, because he was uncharacteristically silent. America hadn’t slept well. He’d spent a good portion of the night tossing and turning before finally pressing up against England’s side.  
  
America slanted his eyes towards England, watching him in silence as the older nation drove, eyes narrowed at the roadway. They hadn’t run into many other people, aside from the occasional car or truck. America watched England’s profile, frowning.   
  
“What?” England asked, because he felt America’s eyes on him.  
  
America shifted in his seat, loosening his seatbelt a little so he could lean back against the window and watch England better. The other nation seemed to bristle under the inspection and the improper way of sitting, but kept his lips tightly pursed.   
  
“I was just thinking…” America began, wetting his lips a little and chewing on the inside of his cheek again.  
  
“Well?” England prompted when America trailed off.  
  
“That—OH MY GOD ENGLAND STOP THE TRUCK!”   
  
England listened to the shouted command instantly, slamming his foot on the break. They both lurched forward and America, because of his way of sitting, slid off the seat a little and hit his head on the dashboard. England’s eyes wide and knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel he looked around.  
  
“What is it? Was I about to hit something?”  
  
“What? No!” America said and this time his shout sounded joyous. He pointed out England’s window. “Look! That bar has karaoke tonight! We have to stop here!”   
  
There was a strained silence before England turned his head and full-on glared at America.   
  
America flashed his one hundred watt smile, and almost looked sheepish. “Come on,” he urged. “It’ll be fun. I do it with Japan all the time when I visit him!”  
  
“You nearly gave me a heart attack, you idiot!” England shouted and cuffed him in the ear. He ignored America’s squawk of indignation. Muttering many curses, England breathed in sharply. Looking at England, America could reason that he did look rather flustered by the sudden turn of events. He could see his heart pounding through his cardigan even from the other side of the truck.   
  
“There’s a motel over there?” America asked, pointing further down the street.   
  
The glare that England gave him could have killed a lesser man, but luckily America was fearless (last night didn’t count) and could do nothing but smile hopefully at him as he repositioned himself, properly this time, in the passenger seat.   
  
Before America could start another round of ‘come oooon’, England was turning the truck towards the motel and parking. All the while he just kept cursing, but America knew he’d won.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“I can sing better than that,” America announced for the fifth time after the fifth drunk participant stumbled off the stage and back to his group, puffing up proudly at the cheers and toasts of glasses in his general direction.   
  
England looked up from where he was nursing his drink and rolled his eyes.   
  
“You gonna sing?” America asked, eyeing one of the servers as she waltzed by.   
  
“No,” England said, voice flat. “Why would I want to make a fool of myself and come back to the table only for you to announce that you could sing better? Which, by the way, I know is a lie. I’ve been listening to you sing off-key on the road for the past two days and it isn’t pretty.”  
  
America’s face flashed a moment, screwing up in thought and, England realized, slight offence. Well, good. The boy could afford to be more humble.   
  
“Come on, sing,” America said, changing gears back towards England.   
  
“I am far too sober for something like that,” England announced, face prim.   
  
America stared at him a moment before his face burst into his wide grin. “Well, we can fix that!”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“This onessssss fer you, ‘Merica,” England announced, mouth lax over the microphone to the point where he practically had the bulb in his mouth. The crowd around him cheered, not realizing that he meant the man at the table, not the country itself. Regardless, the sentiment still stood. His hand flopped around, pointing haphazardly in America’s general direction. He blinked his eyes and swiveled, pointing in another direction, towards a pretty blond girl near the front. “And fer’ye—hullo, luv.”   
  
“Woo!” America called out from the back, drink held high and looking far too pleased with himself.   
  
“Imma gonna sing ya the Beatles,” England announced loudly into the microphone. He took a drink of his glass, and let out a loud smacking noise. “Christ, yos Americans dun know how t’make a proper lager! Thi’tases like piss, right.”   
  
A few haphazard boos here or there but mostly the crowd was laughing, amused by the drunken Englishmen on stage.   
  
“So who here likes t’Beatles?” England called out and grinned sloppily when the crowd in the bar cheered for him. Red face flushed with pride and the drink, he nodded sagely. “Course ya do. Bloody lot of ya ge’a hard-on about British culture.”   
  
He hiccupped and blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision.  
  
America called out, “Just sing the song already. You’re boring us to tears.”   
  
“Shut yer mouth,” England commanded, and hoped he was glaring towards where America was, though he couldn’t be certain. Then he cleared his throat and picked his Beatles song, “Hello Goodbye”.  
  
The song started playing and he sang it pretty well, only slurring his words a few times. To be fair, there weren’t too many lyrics—he’d almost chosen “Revolution” and for various reasons decided against it. He swayed to the music and even tried to incorporate some dance moves, much to the cheering crowd’s delight.   
  
Once he was done, he took a dramatic bow, managing to dump the rest of his Budweiser, or whatever disgusting piss alcohol it was that America was making him drink, all over himself. But he didn’t care. He staggered off the stage and America was there to catch his elbow, guiding him back towards their table, grinning and laughing all the while. His cheeks and nose were a bit pink, probably from his own alcohol—he’d always been a light-weight.   
  
“That was great,” America said, laughter in his eyes and his voice. “You sounded like—what’s that guy? Only drunk.”  
  
“Who?” England asked, and swallowed a belch as he reached for America’s half-full drink. America let him and England took a large gulp from it before setting it back down in front of America. America seemed undisturbed by their sharing a drink, but this could have been because he was drunk, and his fingers wrapped around the sweating glass absently, conforming to the same shape as England’s had when holding the drink.   
  
“You know—that guy.”  
  
“I don’t know,” England snapped, and swallowed, his throat feeling too dry and lacking in harder alcohol.   
  
“Uhhh,” America said, tilting his head to the side and trying to think. The way he stuck his tongue out while thinking was utterly distracting and England stared at it. “That guy—ya know—the one who sings. He’s from your country—or maybe from Uncle Ireland’s.”  
  
“Dun call ‘im uncle. Christ,” England muttered, looking peeved. “Makes me thin’ m’ur father.”   
  
America snorted. “You’re definitely not that, England.”   
  
“Fuck,” England cursed, unrelated to America’s words as he stared at the lights above their heads, and thought they were far too bright. He went to drink from his glass before remembering he’d already dumped it all over himself.   
  
“But seriously,” America said, leaning in. He pointed a finger at England. “You sound like that guy… the—whassit—‘to die by your side is such a heavenly way to diiiie’ guy.”   
  
He still sounded tone-deaf, but at least he got the beat and rhythm of the song right. “Th’Smiths, you lout.”   
  
“Yeah!” America said, beaming. “Them! You sound like tha’ guy.”   
  
England was about to snap at the boy for whatever reason but was interrupted when the blonde girl from before—the one England had dedicated his song to—came up to the table and smiled a coy, drunken smile.   
  
“Hi,” she said.  
  
“Hullo,” England slurred back. He grinned up at her, and it seemed the drunkenness dissipated somewhat in the presence of a beautiful American girl, because America could clearly see England perk up and smile in what America could suppose was a rather charming way.   
  
The girl giggled, her eyes bright and blue. “Want to dance?”   
  
“B’wha,” was England’s intelligent reply.  
  
America felt inclined to step in, to guide his poor, misguided ally towards an awesome American citizen. “Come on, you big lug. Get on out there.”   
  
“Dun need ye tellin’ me wha t’do,” England snapped, and stumbled to his feet. America pushed his foot into England’s backside, urging him forward. And forward was certainly England’s style of flirtation while drunk, because he slung his arm over the girl’s shoulders and started half-stumbling, half-falling towards the dance floor on the other side of the bar with her, where some people were trying to dance to some drunken fool’s rendition of “Dancing Queen”.   
  
America laughed, watching England’s attempts at dancing. He seemed to turn on the British charm full force because despite his lackadaisical dancing, the blonde seemed rather pleased and kept giggling whenever England spoke, most likely some kind of compliment or pet name. America watched as England grew too hot, thumbing at the knot of his tie, loosening it. America watched his throat, watched the way England laughed, watched the way he moved and flowed and tripped over himself.   
  
America downed the rest of his drink.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
About an hour later found America teetering along with England’s arm slung over America’s shoulders.   
  
“Yer gonna be really hung over tomorrow, dude,” America told him.  
  
“Dun call me dude,” England muttered around his mouthful of America’s shirt. America wasn’t sure why a wad of his shirt was in England’s mouth, but that was neither here nor there.   
  
They slumped their way back towards the motel across the street.   
  
“Lotsa people liked you, you charmer.”   
  
“I ge’long swimmingly with people,” England protested. “Charmin’.”  
  
“If ya barf on me I’m gonna be pissed,” America warned as England veered dangerously close to a trash can. England swiveled his head around to bark out some kind of curse but thought better of it when his vision swam and he ended up just clinging tighter to America’s bulk.   
  
“Yerl’redy pissed,” England snorted.   
  
“I meant mad.”  
  
“Ben mad fer years.”  
  
“Can we not talk ‘bout this when we’re drunk?” America moaned. “I’ll be angry. Betta?”  
  
“Hrm,” England said, unintelligible and practically inaudible.   
  
America rolled his eyes and then instantly regretted it when it made him stumble across the crosswalk back towards the motel.   
  
“S’course the girls like me,” England hiccupped, returning to America’s previous statement. “Says so m’self: yos ahhhmericans ge hard-ons for us Brits and our stuff.”   
  
“Would you quit saying that?” America whined. “I don’t get a boner from that. If ya say it like that, dude, it’ll make it seem like I—”  
  
“Fancy me?” England asked when America cut himself off.  
  
America nodded. “Yeah.”  
  
England, for whatever reason, found that hilarious and laughed obnoxiously the last few yards back to the motel. They stumbled along to their room where America somehow managed to wedge the key inside and open it.   
  
“Pffft,” he continued on as he stumbled onto his own bed. He turned his attentions back towards America.   
  
“What?” America asked, kicking off his shoes and tripping over his pant legs. He fell onto his bed and buried his face into his pillow a moment before turning his attention back towards England, who was stripping off his shirt. “Wh—whoa whoa, wait!”   
  
England looked over at him before taking off his shirt a bit too slowly than was necessary and then going for his belt.   
  
“Fuck, I’m tired,” England moaned and pulled his belt from its loops.   
  
America’s face was bright red, and not simply from the alcohol. He groaned. “I’m gonna be so hung over tomorrow.”   
  
England laughed and kicked off his pants so that he had only his boxers. He crawled, with great purpose, towards the head of his bed so that he could squeeze under the covers. He’d left his socks on. America stumbled off his bed and grasped England’s calf before he could disappear under the sheets.   
  
England blinked up at him as America pulled off England’s heavy woolen socks one foot at a time.   
  
“Hrm,” England groaned and it could have been a thank you, but America couldn’t tell. Then England started laughing again.  
  
“What?” America asked. He remembered to lift his hand off of England’s calf.   
  
“You, with a—wassit—a ‘boner’ over me,” England said, laughing almost hysterically. “S’funny.”   
  
America swallowed and looked away, blinking to clear his vision. Then he cracked a smile. “Yeaaaaah, dude. There’s no way thad’ppen.”   
  
England’s head hit the pillow and almost instantly he started snoring.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
England stirred from a long sleep and blinked a few times, trying to grow acquainted to the light filtering in the room despite the drawn curtains. He groaned, low in his throat.   
  
“My thoughts exactly,” he heard someone mumble from the next bed over. He glanced over and watched as America burrowed further under the covers and stuffed his head under his pillow.   
  
“Christ,” England cursed. “Fuck.”   
  
“Hung-over?” America drawled and sounded more than hung-over himself.   
  
England made an unintelligible noise in the affirmative. They both didn’t move from their beds.   
  
They slept for a few more hours after that.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
England woke up again when he heard running water and America’s atrocious singing. His voice was loud, booming from the closed door to the motel room’s bathroom. He was in the middle of crowing out a song that England recognized from _O Brother Where Art Thou?_ but that he was of the opinion that George Clooney did a much better job singing.   
  
“How the fuck is he able to sing this early in the morning?” England growled low and looked at the clock radio. It was two in the afternoon.  
  
England bolted upright as the time registered. That was immediately a mistake and he flopped back down onto the bed with a loud groan, clutching his head as the pounding headache renewed itself full-force.   
  
“Christ,” he cursed.   
  
After a while the singing and the sound of running water stopped and America left the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist and water droplets falling along the ridges and lines of his body. Hair damp and glasses slightly foggy as he pushed them up the bridge of his nose, he was surprised but no less happy to see England.   
  
“Hey, you’re awake!”   
  
“How are—why are you so peppy?” England groaned, staring at America a moment before covering his eyes with his arms.   
  
“I always feel just need a lot of sleep and I’m fine,” America chirped, trotting over to his bag to start digging around for clean clothes. He looked up at England, who was still flopped in the bed, supine, and his eyes covered. “It’s afternoon, England.”  
  
“I’d noticed,” England muttered, dryly.   
  
“I went and got some medicine from the store—it’s on the table.”  
  
England peeked out, glancing at the table. Sure enough, there was some asprin and a glass of water waiting for him. He stared at it, and then glanced back at America. But America’s back was to him, pulling on a pair of boxers.   
  
England looked away quickly when he caught sight of America’s backside, and quickly sat up, downing the pills and the water soon after. He swallowed and stared up at the ceiling, averting his eyes until he was certain that America at least had his pants on. Sure enough, when he glanced back, America was fiddling with his belt, trying to find a notch that would be comfortable.   
  
“You sing too loud,” England announced and frowned when it left his mouth, as he’d meant to thank the boy instead.   
  
America swiveled his head to look at England over his shoulder. He turned towards England and his hair was damp and in his eyes but he was smiling anyway even as water dripped down his neck and over his bare chest.   
  
“You heard me?” he almost sounded embarrassed.  
  
“It woke me up,” England muttered.   
  
This time, America’s grin was sheepish. “Oh.”   
  
“Man of Constant Sorrow, was it?” England guessed, rubbing at his forehead to try to soothe the headache.   
  
The sheepishness was gone and replaced with something close to delight. “I thought you didn’t like my movies?”   
  
England didn’t answer and instead sat up completely—only to remember that he’d stripped down the night before. He cursed and looked around for his bag.   
  
America pointed. “It’s under the bed.”  
  
England pulled it out and very quickly grasped a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt. He took great pains to pull on the slacks without revealing too much of his legs to America, though he wasn’t sure why he was suddenly being modest about it. He stood up once the zip was secured and shrugged on his dress-shirt, working on the buttons.   
  
When he glanced up, America was blatantly staring at him. And making a face.   
  
America made a face. “Don’t you ever, ya know, dress down, dude?”  
  
“Would you _stop_ calling me ‘dude’?” England snapped. “For fuck’s sake.”  
  
America’s sunny expression closed off for a moment, and he almost recoiled. England almost felt guilty. But soon enough America’s grin was back and he pulled on a t-shirt. They dressed in silence for a moment, England fumbling for a moment over his buttons and reaching for a tie. He glanced at America. He frowned as America pulled on a plaid button-down.   
  
“You’re wearing a button-down, too,” he pointed out.  
  
“The difference is that I’m not buttoning it up, and I’m rolling up my sleeves,” America announced and made a great show of doing just that. He wagged his finger at England. “You button ‘em up and then put on a tie. And if you’re being super frumpy, then you’ll wear a sweater vest, too.”  
  
England’s eyes narrowed, his hand wrapped around the sweater vest in his bag. He let go of it and straightened, huffing slightly. “I beg your pardon. I am not frumpy.”   
  
“Saying ‘I beg your pardon’ is totally frumpy, especially in your accent.”  
  
England’s lips thinned out into a tight line.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“So,” America said as he pointed a fork towards England. England watched the fork, poked through a slab of pancake and maple syrup, with great ambivalence, as if waiting for the food to fling off America’s fork and land on England’s face. They’d found a diner that served breakfast all day, much to England’s relief as he wasn’t sure if he could stomach non-breakfast food at the moment.   
  
Upon America’s insistence, England wasn’t wearing his tie, but kept his shirt buttoned up save for the first few buttons. England felt strangely naked, but he supposed it wasn’t bad to be casual, either. Especially if America was going to look like a right slob.   
  
“What?” England asked around the lip of the mug filled with tea—of course the diner wouldn’t have a proper teacup—when America did not continue with his ‘so’ proclamation.   
  
“Did you get that girl’s number? You know, from last night?” America asked as he chewed thoughtfully on his pancake, and then stuffed a whole slab of bacon in there with it.   
  
England looked vaguely disgusted by America’s table manners already, but upon asking about the girl, his face grew surprisingly slack. He cleared his throat a moment and studied his mug of tea as if it was the most interesting thing of all time.   
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” England muttered. “Me, with one of your people?”   
  
America’s face quirked downwards to a frown before his face returned to its customary curious expression, like a puppy almost. “What’s wrong with being with an American?”   
  
England nearly poured a large portion of his tea into his lap but managed to evade such a disaster by swallowing thickly and then choking loudly. He hacked into his hand and America looked alarmed, rising to slap England on the back—hard.   
  
England picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth and hand with it, eyes averted away.   
  
“Argh,” England muttered as he picked up his fork to poke at the egg substitute comprising his omelet.   
  
“You didn’t answer,” America pointed out after a lengthy silence that England hoped wasn’t an awkward one.   
  
England looked up at him before looking back down at his omelet, suddenly incredibly interested in the way the yellow mass wiggled against his poking fork.   
  
“… There’s nothing wrong with being with an American,” England finally relented.   
  
America simultaneously perked up and deflated. England puzzled over this movement, over how that could be possible, and why it even happened. England watched him, refusing to offer any more information unless America asked.  
  
And of course he asked.   
  
“Then why not get her number?”  
  
“Because it wouldn’t be practical,” England dismissed and glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was nearby to overhear what he would say next. “For what we are. We’re not like them, so it’d be incredibly difficult. To work through the differences between our very natures.”  
  
“Sheesh, England,” America interrupted. “I was asking if you got her number, not if you were going to marry her.”   
  
England flushed, partially from embarrassment but mostly annoyance at America’s dismissal.   
  
“I am a gentleman,” England scoffed and pointedly ignored America’s eyes roll. “I do not simply act casual about such things, unlike certain other European nations…”  
  
“Unless you’re—uh—horny?” America asked and his puritanical roots finally overshadowed his bluntness in favor of giving him a sense of shame (never mind that the Puritans were incredibly repressed, England silently reminded himself, though he refused to indulge in such thoughts in relation to America). The little awkward pause was enough for England to be more amused than outraged by his question. It was almost endearing, the way he stumbled over the word ever so slightly, his cheeks turning pink.   
  
Even so, England narrowed his eyes at him.   
  
America shrugged, grinning his lopsided smile. “Spare me the ‘gentleman’ thing. I remember what happened back when I lived in Vegas and you came to visit.”   
  
England sputtered. “I was drunk!”   
  
“That’s hardly an excuse when you’re always drunk,” America pointed out.  
  
“I am not _always_ drunk,” England snapped back, feeling his hackles raise and the urge to throttle America skyrocket to danger levels. Any thought that he could actually be endearing flew out the window.   
  
“My point is,” America continued on, as if not noticing England’s constant interruptions. “You should have gotten her number. You coulda had a nice booty call whenever you visited this area.”  
  
“I never visit this area,” England muttered. “Unless I go mad, thinking it a brilliant idea to go traveling in a car with you to god knows where. It’s certainly been going swimmingly so far.”   
  
America blinked. “I want to go swimming.”  
  
“Would you—” England cut himself off, releasing a long, aggravated sigh. “Honestly.”   
  
“Let’s get a motel tonight with a pool,” America suggested, and chugged down his full glass of orange juice. He thought for a moment. “Though I guess if you were, er, horny, you wouldn’t string people along,” he said after he’d swallowed as if there had been no pause in their earlier conversation and it left England’s head spinning from the way the boy could jump from one topic to the next without any pause for air. America ignored England’s groan as he continued, “You’d just bang ‘em, yeah?”   
  
“Can we not talk about this?” England growled. “I certainly don’t wish to discuss my sex life with _you_ , especially when hung-over.”   
  
“Why not?”   
  
“Because it’s you,” England muttered. “And you get all skittish and stupid as soon as the subject is really brought up as anything other than a joke.”  
  
“I do not,” America protested around a mouthful of food.  
  
“Penis,” England said, dryly, and America choked on his bacon and just managed to restrain an immature little giggle. England sighed, “See?”   
  
“Well of course I’m going to laugh if you just come out and say it like that,” America said and this time couldn’t stop himself from laughing, his face pink.   
  
“Cock,” England said and couldn’t help but smirk when America’s face contorted in a mixture of embarrassed modesty and juvenile glee.   
  
The latter ended up winning because he started laughing, though he tried to disguise it by drinking his coffee. England said an obscenity a third time and this time America couldn’t restrain himself, throwing back his laugh and filling the entire diner with his booming, infectious laughter. England couldn’t help but crack a smile at that.   
  
“But seriously,” America insisted, laughter still choking his words, little tears collected at the corner of his eyes from his mirth. “You can’t tell me that the girl from last night wasn’t pretty.”  
  
“She was,” England agreed. “But not my type.”  
  
“Huh?” America asked, watching England sip his tea. “What is your type?”   
  
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”  
  
“Sure it is!” America protested, grinning. “If I know, I can keep an eye out for a girl like that so I can steer her your way.”   
  
“I like people who aren’t blonde and obnoxious,” England said simply, eyes on his tea.   
  
“What’s wrong with blondes?”   
  
“Airheads, the whole lot of them,” England responded dryly.   
  
“Hey!” America protested, frowning, before a thought occurred to him: “What the hell, you’re blonde, too!”   
  
This hadn’t occurred to England when he’d set out to insult America. He frowned, and finished his tea. “American blondes, then.”   
  
“You’re an ass in the morning, England.”  
  
“It isn’t morning,” England shot back.  
  
“Then you’re just always an ass,” America consented.   
  
“And you’re always obnoxious and poking your nose into other people’s business,” England snapped. “If you must know, I don’t have a specific type and it wouldn’t even matter if I did because I do not pursue relations with my citizens or anyone else’s citizens.”   
  
“But you can’t sit there and tell me that you don’t have, ya know, urges and stuff—I know you’re a pervert, England.”  
  
“I am not!” England practically shouted.   
  
The American scratched at his chin, laughing. “Yes you are.”   
  
“You’d do well to not make assumptions, my dear boy,” the British man muttered to his plate. The omelet stared up at him, innocent as always. He sighed. “I may have—urges, as you put it, but I also have standards that I hold myself to.”   
  
“Is there somebody that you like?” America asked, seemingly unaware that he was still very much poking his nose into other people’s business. Or he simply did not care.   
  
England glanced up from his plate and towards America. Before he could answer, he was thankfully rescued by the waitress who came over to refill America’s coffee cup and offer England more tea—which he gratefully accepted.   
  
“Do you just not want to tell me?” America asked as soon as she walked away to fetch England more tea.   
  
“Didn’t I already say that I didn’t want to discuss this with you?” England growled. “Can we just drop it, already?”   
  
America stared into his coffee cup, looking suspiciously glum, though if asked America wouldn’t have been able to say why, exactly. He reached out and grabbed a few packets of Splenda and the creamer. He dumped them both into his coffee and stirred. The waitress returned and gave England a new teabag and some hot water. He thanked her, smiling charmingly up at her before turning back to scowl at America.   
  
America didn’t look up from where he was adding creamer and sugar. His fingers moved carefully, thumbs brushing along the rim of his coffee cup, wiping away the droplets of coffee that escaped over the rim.   
  
England drank his new cup of tea and breathed in the moment, thankful for the relative safety the following silence gave to him. He looked over the mug and watched America watch something out the window, not looking at England anymore. He didn’t look too bad in the button-down, now that England paused to look at it. He’d insulted him earlier for looking like a sloppy university student, but America seemed to take it in stride, or at least with a bit of rebellious pride in once again doing something that England disapproved of.   
  
“You’re gaining weight again, aren’t you?” England asked America, abruptly. It came out worse than he’d meant it to, realized it was an insult when it was already halfway out his mouth.   
  
America stiffened up and looked over at him, frowning. “What the hell, England?”   
  
“Because you were fiddling with your belt earlier. And your trousers seemed a bit too tight.” England drank his tea to cover up his scowl—a scowl at himself.   
  
America looked confused a moment before sheepishly looking down, staring specifically at his belly, which protruded slightly over the top of his belt. Where it might have looked silly on someone else, with America it seemed more endearing than anything else. He’d always been large for his size, even when he was younger, and he’d always had that boyish face of his, still a baby face in the grand scheme of things, especially when compared with the older nations of Europe. He didn’t look fat or overweight, just larger.   
  
“I didn’t realize you were staring at my ass,” America teased.   
  
England’s face exploded in color. “I was _not_. I can’t help it if your bum takes up my entire field of vision when you’re walking in front of me. Honestly, how much do you weigh now?”   
  
America swallowed and stared guilty down at his coffee mug, filled with sugar and cream. He blushed, ducking his head so that his blonde bangs and Nantucket predominated England’s vision, hiding his face from view.   
  
America muttered a number but England didn’t catch it.   
  
He felt guilty for bringing it up all of sudden. He knew that America was sensitive about his weight. He cleared his throat.   
  
“It’s just,” he offered. “It means you must be getting back on your feet, at least a little. If you aren’t losing weight in an unhealthy sense.” America peeked over at him through his fringe. England cleared his throat again. “It isn’t that obvious. I just happened to notice today, is all.”   
  
America inhaled a sharp breath and stared down at his finished plate, missing four pancakes and the four slices of bacon and the collection of hash browns. His eyes flickered a moment before his fingers uncurled around his coffee mug and he sat back.   
  
“I don’t think my pants are that tight,” America protested.   
  
“No, they’re perfectly lovely,” England agreed, still feeling as if he’d perhaps pushed America too hard, and actually struck a chord of feelings England often forgot that America had, underneath all his bravado and obnoxious nature.   
  
They passed the rest of their meal in silence. England gave up on trying to finish his plate and under normal circumstances America would have inhaled it for him, but he seemed to restrain himself, looking out the window with vaguely pink cheeks, chin cushioned in his hand. England shoved aside his feelings of self-loathing and guilt over it, reminding himself that America would bounce back, as he always did, and go back to being his annoying self in no time.   
  
The waitress gave them their check, and America threw down a few bills, while England made sure he’d calculated the correct amount for tip, leaving a few American coins on the table. They stood to leave.   
  
“See, I think I get it,” America said as they moved towards the truck.   
  
“What?”   
  
“Why you _don’t_ get numbers or booty calls,” America said.   
  
“Oh, not this again,” England muttered. He rolled his eyes skyward. “And why not, America?”  
  
“Because if you say that someone’s gaining weight, normal people would get upset and want to slap you or something,” America said, hands in his pockets. He pulled out his key and unlocked the driver’s side. “Luckily for you, a hero is never emotionally distraught over something as silly as their appearance!”   
  
England had known he’d bounced back. His eyebrow twitched as America climbed into his seat and reached over to unlock England’s door. England climbed in as well.   
  
“I already said you don’t look bad,” the Englishman felt inclined to remind the American. America shrugged. England looked out the window, his arms folded protectively over his chest.   
  
“But I already know,” America said with a loud laugh, thus cementing England’s perpetual annoyance towards the younger nation. “I’m hot!”   
  
“Oh my days,” England whispered to his reflection in the window. “I’m driving with a complete imbecile.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The midwest is best, it would seem. Best for getting drunk, at least, and going swimming. Also, America is still hopelessly repressed.

  
“Man, it’s already getting dark. We started off late today,” America said as he watched the sun sink down in front of them. He glanced over at England over the edge of his sunglasses. England, quiet for the short drive thus far, left America to feel as if he was talking to himself. “How’s your head?”  
  
“Better,” England confessed after a short moment, and closed his eyes. His voice was soft, thoughtful. “Feels more like a slight poking rather than a constant drill.”  
  
“Ouch,” America said, because neither sounded too pleasant.  
  
“We can’t all be as youthful and exuberant as you, evidently,” England said, voice dry.  
  
“I just bounce back easily,” America agreed with that slight smile that never fully left his face or his voice.  
  
“Don’t I know it,” England muttered. He opened his eyes after a moment. He watched America tap his hands, far too large, against the steering wheel as he mouthed along to a song, which he had mercifully kept at a reasonable volume for the sake of England’s headache. England was thankful, though he did not voice it.  
  
“Hey, England?” America asked.  
  
“Yes?” he sighed.  
  
“I think that motel up ahead has a pool,” America said, squinting through the windshield, hunched over and unable to hide the hopeful expression in his eyes.  
  
“Oh, heavens, you’re still up on that, are you?” America’s companion murmured, mostly to himself and his eyes closed once again. He shrugged one shoulder and allowed a small smile to tease across his lips after the small pause it took him to realize that America was asking for permission. “Then I suppose we’ll be staying there the night.”  
  
“Yeah!” America enthused, feeling bubbly again.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“You aren’t going to come in with me?” America asked, looking over at England as the other nation slowly sat down on his bed, slipping out of his shoes and letting out a small, appreciative sigh.  
  
“I don’t have any swimming trunks, I’m afraid.” England didn’t look too hung up over such a statement.  
  
“That’s okay, I have two!” America said cheerfully.  
  
England raised one eyebrow. “Ever prepared, it would seem.”  
  
“Yep!” America chirped, digging around his bag.  
  
He pulled out a pair with stars and stripes (predictable) and another of a much less eye-catching design, merely red with one white stripe down each leg. England rolled his eyes but held out his hand. America chucked the second pair at England, who caught it effortlessly.  
  
“Very well.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“You know, when I invited you with me I thought you’d actually be swimming, not sitting with only your feet in the hot tub,” America called from the pool.  
  
“It’s dark out and I’m cold,” England protested. His arms were crossed over his chest and he hunched over slightly, though his propriety kept him from neglecting his posture entirely, his neck angled in just a way to suggest the shadow of a proper British gentleman.  
  
They’d spent a good while in the pool, despite the sun having long since set. America enjoyed swimming around in the pool, doing flips underwater and handstands, now that the water gave him enough support to lift his bulk. England, however, appreciated the hot tub simply because it was warm and the jet-bubbles whooshing over the bottoms of his feet were comforting and enjoyable.  
  
“If you would swim around you’d warm right up! It’s nice over here,” America called and attempted to send a wave of water towards England with a push of his arm, though the hot tub was too far away from the main pool and the wave just splashed across the pool deck. “I thought you were once a great pirate or something, what, are you afraid of water now?”  
  
“Firstly,” the older nation said, acquiring what America had long since dubbed the ‘lecture voice’ and loathed with every fiber of his being, “I am not afraid of water. Just because I can’t be arsed to swim around like a loon as you do does not mean I’m afraid. Secondly, I was never a pirate. I was a privateer—you know this.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I remember,” America said with a dismissive wave of his hand before diving back underwater, kicking the surface extra hard in an attempt to splash England. He missed again, but just to be safe England stood up and moved to the other side of the hot tub, further away from the pool and the splashing boy of a nation.  
  
America kicked around under water for a while and England kept his eyes on him for no discernable reason. He watched him scoot along the bottom before rocketing off the bottom and breeching the surface for air.  
  
When he resurfaced, he found England’s eyes almost immediately, brushing his water-soaked hair from his eyes, Nantucket still sticking up stubbornly. He grinned, all white teeth and joy. “Besides,” he said, “Cowboys are cooler than pirates—or privateers. Whatever.”  
  
“Is that so?” England said and bit back a snort of disbelief. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion, and England knew it certainly wouldn’t be the last.  
  
America nodded, enthusiastically, water droplets shooting from his head and his fringe flopping back down into his eyes again before he stubbornly shoved them away.  
  
England, for once, didn’t feel like rising to the boy’s bait, so he allowed the silly fool to operate under that foolish belief. America pouted, since undoubtedly he found it odd not to be in some kind of spat with England. He swam over to the pool edge closest to England and his hot tub and hoisted himself effortlessly from the water, splashing across the deck as he climbed to his feet. He shook some water from his feet, almost looking like a waterlogged dog in his efforts, and the mental image made England almost smile. America stretched, arms above his head and arching back, flattening his stomach and England stared at him before he forced himself to avert his gaze. Properly loosened up, America padded over towards England.  
  
“Hey,” America said, pausing on the other side of the tub, waiting until England’s eyes slanted upwards to meet America’s. America grinned and flexed one arm. “I’m looking pretty good, aren’t I?”  
  
England snorted. He hadn’t quite expected that pronouncement, though in hindsight he shouldn’t have been surprised. “Did you come over here simply to brag?”  
  
“Seriously, though, check out my awesome biceps,” the younger insisted, flexing again and gesturing with his free hand, demonstrating the full prowess of his muscles.  
  
“Yes, they’re perfectly charming, America,” England agreed absently. He kicked his feet in the warm water a moment, leaning back against his hands, elbows locked behind him. He surveyed America’s body, as he flexed accordingly for him. “Is this meant to be a protest against my claims you’ve been gaining weight?”  
  
“Yes,” America said, blunt and honest as always. “It’s all muscle, baby.”  
  
He grinned at England, flexing and posing a bit more before jumping into the center of the hot tub once he was certain that England was completely off-guard. England sputtered as the hot water hit him in the chest and face, soaking him and leaving him to shiver in the unforgiving night air. He glared at his companion as he resurfaced laughing, and waded over to England’s side, folding his arms on the pool deck, his elbow brushing against England’s thigh. He looked up at England, blue eyes shining and his hair damp and patted down, save for the ever-rebellious Nantucket.  
  
England looked as if he wanted to say something, but restrained himself. Instead, England reached out his hand and brushed aside America’s golden hair, his expression almost fond, almost, for a moment, finding America’s antics endearing.  
  
“You’re really something,” he decided, when a proper insult couldn’t be found. He had to remind himself to drop his hand away, and he did so, letting it rest by America resting the side of his face against his folded arms and merely observing England.  
  
America’s grin was both coy and sly when he said, “I am pretty great.”  
  
England snorted, and America laughed again, and pulled away, straightening up. England didn’t notice the presence of America’s arm resting up against his thigh until the warmth was gone and he was left cold in the night air again. America before turning away lifted one hand to pat England’s shoulder, three times, three soft pats. His hand lingered, as if he’d forgotten that his hand was there, his attention turned upwards, past the bright lights surrounding the outdoor pool, beyond the bright lights in the city they’d stopped in.  
  
“What is it?” England asked, but his attention was on the hand on his shoulder, unsure how to react—unsure whether he should mention it or leave it there, unsure if he wanted it to stay there.  
  
America’s hand slipped away soon enough, however, so he could point up towards the sky. “Trying to look for the stars.”  
  
England looked, too, but he couldn’t see any. “Too much light pollution.”  
  
“Yeah…” America said, and looked almost saddened by this fact.  
  
“Oh, America, by the way,” England said, and waited until America shifted his attention back towards him. Then with a wicked grin, he threaded his fingers through America’s hair and said, “Pirates are much better than cowboys.”  
  
And then he dunked America under the water. He released his head when the boy’s mouth opened under water, blowing out bubbles. When he resurfaced, his mouth was open not in anger but in laughter, his eyes closed and shaking his head from side to side so that the water sprinkled across England’s chest.  
  
“Low blow!” he shouted, then grabbed England’s ankle and dragged him into the water with him.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The next day, they were back on the road again. England wasn’t sure where they were and he suspected that America only had a vague idea, as they traveled along back roads and didn’t stop for conventional tourist attractions—they’d made a slight detour to stop by an arcade, where England bitched the entire time and America just kicked him in the rump to get him motivated (it didn’t work; it made it worse, in fact). They stayed there for several hours, despite England reminding him that it was stupid. America, grinning as he beat England at a racing game for the fifth time, told him it was necessary to keep him spirited.  
  
Now, on the road yet again, watching the road twist on, England wondered, and not for the first time, why exactly he was doing all this again.  
  
“I still smell like chlorine,” England muttered to himself.  
  
America looked over at him from the driver’s seat, fingers strumming over the wheel and grinning a little. “I guess you didn’t shower well enough.”  
  
“Contrary to what you believe about British hygiene, I did shower quite well. Thank you very much.”  
  
“I don’t make fun of British hygiene! I make fun of your dentistry,” the younger nation corrected.  
  
“Tch,” the other scoffed, looking back out the window. He watched some trees pass by before asking, “Where are we?”  
  
America shrugged. “Somewhere in Indiana or Illinois, I think.”  
  
“You don’t know? It’s your country.”  
  
“I haven’t been looking at the signs.” Another shrug.  
  
“Ridiculous,” England cursed and pressed his forehead against the window for a moment before pulling away, sitting up and staring straight ahead instead. He closed his eyes, sighing. “Though of course it’s in your nature to charge forward without any idea what’s going on, even in your own country.”  
  
America released a long sigh, but when England turned to look at him, America didn’t say anything. He just stared out at the twisting landscape, following the curvature of the road.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Hey,” America asked as he peeked his head out the sliding door, looking to England who sat in the chair on the balcony their hotel room came with. In the distance, they could see Lake Michigan. It turned out they were in Illinois.  
  
England looked up from his phone, where he was finishing checking emails and voice messages.  
  
“Want to go to the bar?”  
  
“How far away is it?”  
  
“Nah, just down off the lobby downstairs,” America explained, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing towards the door to their hotel room. “This one’s a bit fancier than the places we have been staying, just cause we’re near the lake and all. So, you wanna? I’m thirsty, and there’s a game on, too.”  
  
“Ah. Sports. Of course.”  
  
“Yeah,” America said, perking up. “Wanna go? Just don’t drink as much as you did last time and you should be fine.”  
  
“I seem to recall it was you who bought most of my drinks,” England reminded.  
  
America grinned. “So I could listen to your crappy singing voice.”  
  
England narrowed his eyes. America grinned, laughing.  
  
“Wanna go, then?” America asked again.  
  
England closed his phone and slipped it into his pocket. He stood up, adjusting his button-down shirt and shrugging one shoulder, as if he was making a great sacrifice to give his time to America. “All right.”  
  
“Great,” the younger said, grin still in place.  
  
America led the way out of the room, pausing only slightly to make sure the door shut behind them, England following him until they reached the elevator. The doors opened with a ding and they both stepped inside, standing beside each other. England stood, back straight, and America slumped against the wall. America pushed the first floor button and stared at the others, captured by the desire to press all the buttons. England must have noticed the look because he muttered a quiet, “Don’t you even dare.”  
  
America retreated with his lopsided grin and said, “I wasn’t going to do anything.”  
  
“I’m so sure.”  
  
America whistled along with the elevator music, hands in the pockets of his baggy sweatshirt. “Think I’ll get carded?”  
  
“Most likely, you have a baby face,” England muttered to his feet before lifting his gaze up to the elevator doors.  
  
They stood in silence for a long moment.  
  
“Luckily I have my fake I.D.! Bwhaha,” America announced triumphantly. “Says I’m twenty-three, pretty great.”  
  
“Congratulations.” England rolled his eyes, unsure why they were discussing this.  
  
The purpose came soon enough. “Yours probably says you’re fifty.”  
  
“IT DOES NOT!” England shouted.  
  
The elevator reached the bottom floor and opened with a small ding. America, laughing and ducking out of England’s flailing kick of outrage, led the way towards the back of the lobby, where the entrance to the restaurant and bar was. There weren’t many people in there, save for the bartender and a few stragglers at tables here and there. America marched confidently up to the counter and sat down. England followed behind him.  
  
They ordered drinks and America was carded, though England was not. When the younger pointed out this was because no one needed to tag a fifty year old, England nearly exploded again but managed to restrain himself because in that moment two girls walked by and giggled at the two of them.  
  
England downed his drink. America glanced at him, watching the way England’s cheeks flushed pink, even after only one drink. He leaned against the counter, turned around in the bar stool and observing the dismal setting of the bar, empty, with the restaurant beyond and the view of the lake even further.  
  
They stayed in relative silence for a while, England ordering more drinks once his ran out. America nursed a few, but didn’t go nearly as quickly as England went and it was with a certain dread that America was certain he’d be dealing with a drunk England tonight and a hung-over England tomorrow. Neither sounded terribly appealing, at least with him sober.  
  
“Hmmm,” England hummed to himself, grasping his empty glass—he drank way too quickly, America thought.  
  
“What, checking the girls out again? You’re insatiable, England,” America teased, lips wrapped around the mouth of a beer bottle.  
  
England gave a throaty chuckle, which hadn’t been what America had expected, but only proved that England was too much of a lush for his own good. “You Americans are just charmed by my English wit,” England decided, still chuckling to himself, as if what he was saying was extremely hilarious. “Heh.”  
  
Something in America’s chest felt tight, but he ignored it, focusing on England instead.  
  
“Go talk to them or something, then,” America insisted. “I’ll be watching my game—it’s starting in a few minutes. So it’s not like I’ll be that interesting to hang out with.”  
  
“You hardly ever are.”  
  
“And the game won’t be interesting either,” America said quickly, eyes narrowing a fraction for half a moment. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the television mounted on the wall, at the moment showing a commercial for Miller Lite.  
  
England was watching him, however, and not the girls on the other side of the room. He surveyed him with hooded eyes before shifting his attentions to his drink instead. America swallowed. England drank the rest of his beer.  
  
“Tastes awful,” England decided. “Next time you’re in London I’m taking you to a pub so you can try something actually worth drinking.”  
  
“You already said it tasted bad, but you’re still drinking it,” America pointed out as England set his empty bottle on the bar’s counter. “Now go get your new girlfriend or something, England.”  
  
England gave him a look he did not recognize. But then he stood up, emboldened by the alcohol. He started walking away but not before America heard him mutter, “Don’t want to…”  
  
America frowned and almost stood up to follow him, but then his game was on and he had to stay and watch it. He was at a good spot in the bar, so he swiveled his head towards the television and sat, precariously sitting atop the barstool. In the opening minutes of the game, some other patrons to the hotel and the area filtered in, sitting beside him so they, too, could watch the game.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
England spent a fair amount of time with the women, who were very jovial and kind and responded just as he knew they would to his accent. They asked him where in England he was from and when he named a few cities he’d lived in they stared at him with polite lack of comprehension before he finally told them London—then they perked right up again. He talked with them, purposefully using the slang words he hardly ever used simply because it made the women giggle over his “strange” use of the language (if it’d been America, he would have accused him of being the one with the strange language, but he had to be nice to his citizens—he had to).  
  
He glanced over at America, whose earnest eyes were turned upwards towards the television, his large hands drumming against the counter absently as he watched the proceedings to his game.  
  
“Look at that boy, there,” England said and pointed to America. The girls looked. “What do you think?”  
  
The two women he was sitting with didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, but did admit he was cute looking. One of them asked, “Do you know him?”  
  
“Unfortunately,” England said with a disdainful sniff as he downed another drink—honestly, America’s beers tasted horrid. “You don’t think his bum is too wide for those trousers? Or that he looks like a right slob in that button-down of his?”  
  
The two women exchanged looks, both unsure whether exactly this conversation was going. Soon enough, they chalked it up to England being the wingman, and the boy at the bar counter too shy to do anything himself. So they engaged England in talking about America.  
  
England carried on in this fashion, hardly hearing the women and soon enough his words of America quickly filtering to insulting him. Insulting America while out of his hearing range, criticizing his dressing, his weight, his messy hair, his glasses, and that damned earnest look in his eyes, was something he never tired of doing.  
  
He kept going on about it, even after the women had left, losing interest in speaking of America and even losing interest in listening to England’s drunkenly slurred accent. He was alone now, but he didn’t notice or care, drinking more and more and thinking over America and hating him for it.  
  
“Too damn… whassit… too damn eager,” he hiccupped to himself. He sniffed and then finished off his drink, signaling to the bartender for another. “The women think he’s attractive, the men think he’s a… ‘bro’ or whatever pish-posh these damn yanks call it.”  
  
He slammed his hand on the table, but missed and ended up slamming his fist into his thigh. He slouched forward, nearly hitting his head on the table from the sudden change in equilibrium.  
  
“Whole lot of rubbish!” he declared, loudly, though no one looked his way.  
  
He wasn’t nearly drunk enough yet. His words weren’t slurred and the world still seemed to be in focus. His tongue moved a bit quicker and without restraint, which made England more than sure that he was still drunk, but he wasn’t nearly drunk enough for his tastes.  
  
“Christ,” he cursed, and then swallowed another hiccup. He let out a loud sigh, clenching his eyes shut to try and steady his vision enough so he could stare at America some more.  
  
He opened his eyes. He watched America watch the television. Stupid, stupid boy. He attempted to drink without taking his eyes away from the screen, tipping his drink against his mouth. England watched the way the beer spilled over his chin a little before he dropped his glass back down and stuck out his tongue, licking at his chin to get at what he’d left behind. Then he wiped at his face with the back of his hand, all the while his blue eyes trained solely on the television and that damned perpetually earnest smile on his face  
  
“Damn boy,” England cursed. “Fucking damned boy.” He carried on in such a manner, muttering damnations and blaspheming against God in the name of America. “Damned boy,” England said again, this time with a deep sigh. “Damned beautiful boy, thas’it.” He hiccupped and turned to talk to a fairy that didn’t exist here and who was very much just a figment of England’s imagination. England took a deep breath, and hiccupped something that could have been a sob. “Too—lookin’—yeah.”  
  
England thought he’d like to walk over there to America. No he wouldn’t. Walk over and touch him, yeah. Slide an arm over his shoulders and drape. He probably wouldn’t care, wouldn’t take his eyes off his blasted game. England could press up against him and America wouldn’t bat an eyelash because he was too engrossed in his game.  
  
“No,” England said with a sighed sob that he hadn’t expected and threw him slightly off-guard upon hearing it. “No, he’d care. No, b’too gay. Stupid, daft—caring ‘bout something like that. Christ. Can’ even hear the word for ‘is junk without sputtering like a virgin.”  
  
He said, loudly, and this time the whole bar did hear, except for America, who was far too absorbed in the game to hear anything beyond the announcer:  
  
“He isn’t even a virgin, fer fuck’s sake!”  
  
He finished his drink and let out a loud sigh, after the other patrons to the bar had stopped looking at him. He signaled to the bartender but the bartender shook his head and moved on to fill the orders of the other patrons of the bar. England cursed, softly, muttering to himself and slumping over his table, alone and lonely.  
  
“Can’t—won’t do anything like that anyway,” he told no one, as if defending himself. His face stretched into a tight smile. “Too lovely to look at—damn fool, damn annoying fool. Cannot stand him—” he hiccupped again “—and his damned beautiful—whatever it—fuck. That’s not— _America_ …”  
  
He hadn’t even wanted to be near the women, he’d wanted to be near America. America, only. Which was stupid, his drunken mind reasoned, because America was a stupid boy and England should move on—Scotland and Ireland told him as much whenever they got the chance, but at least Wales was a bit more sympathetic, if only a little—should move on and carry on. Stiff upper lip! Yes. Damned bastard, damned boy. Couldn’t be trusted. Tromped all over hearts and feelings and sensibilities for his own stupid whims and didn’t even realize what he did to people.  
  
“Bastard!” he announced, loudly. “Christ!”  
  
He ducked his head, drinking from his glass and sniffling, suddenly overcome with the stupid urge to cry. His glass was empty. This was why France didn’t drink with him anymore—because sooner or later he cried about America—no, not just America. He just cried. Today it happened to be America—beautiful America, sitting over there completely oblivious and obnoxious and yet whom he desired so desperately—  
  
  
\---  
  
  
When America looked over at England after the third quarter, he realized that England was alone and crying.  
  
His energized, happy expression fell away almost immediately, and he looked crestfallen as he abruptly stood from his chair. He wobbled a bit, and knew that he was far more than tipsy now. Stomping his feet, trying to get the feeling back into his legs, America stumbled across the room to where England was hunched over his drink, blubbering and shoulders shaking.  
  
His heavy footfalls must have alerted England to his presence, because he abruptly lifted his head, green eyes overflowing with tears and ogling America. Then he glared, tears spilling from his narrowed eyes. His hand shaking, he curled his fingers around his empty glass and tipped it back against his mouth, as if expecting something to be there.  
  
“Bastard,” he told him once America was close enough to actually hear him.  
  
America smiled, uneasily. “Heeeey, buddy. You doing okay?”  
  
“Fuckin’ Christ,” England gasped between sobs.  
  
“Yeah, my thoughts exactly,” America agreed, tipsy and flopping down into the seat across from England, loudly scraping the chair across the floor and drawing unwanted attention to himself. England ducked his head, burying his face into his arms. “H-hey… England…”  
  
“‘M too old fer this,” England mumbled through a sob.  
  
America shifted uneasily, scratching at his face and looking around to see if anyone was staring at them—but they weren’t, the game was too close for anyone to care about the sad drunk in the corner. America reached out a hand and grasped England’s shoulder, squeezing in what he hoped was a comforting way.  
  
“Hey come on, dude,” America pressed, hoping he sounded more sympathetic than he felt. Mostly, he was annoyed—he was missing the game. He should have left England in the hotel room. “Relax, yeah? What’s wrong? Did you get rejected?”  
  
England snorted, loudly, and lifted his hand, as if he were about to hit America. Instead, his fingers ended up snagged in America’s golden hair, holding tight.  
  
America looked vaguely surprised, face pink. “Hey…”  
  
“You,” England said, “It took you damn long enough t’come back over here.”  
  
“Ha ha,” America laughed without much mirth. “The game’s not over yet so if you’re just being a weirdo, I’ll…”  
  
England tightened his hold on America’s hair.  
  
America sighed. “What are you doing, England?”  
  
“Touching you,” England said without a trace of irony. His tears had stopped and mostly been replaced by an annoyed, prickly expression America always associated with England.  
  
America knew his face was turning pink and hated it. “Huh. Okay. Why?”  
  
“… ‘Cause,” England said with a disdainful sniff.  
  
“Well, when are you going to stop?” America asked, biting at his lower lip and trying to gently pry England’s fingers from his hair, glancing around.  
  
“Christ!” England cursed. “Fucking bastard!”  
  
“Hey—whoa—what the hell?” America asked, alarmed by the sudden outburst, and cringing a little when England tugged on America’s hair a bit painfully, clenching his fingers around the golden locks. “Damn it, England, what the—”  
  
England mumbled some unintelligible, inaudible things. America stared at him, frowning, before angling his eyes away from the other nation.  
  
“Shouldn’ put up with this,” England croaked, and finally dropped his hand away.  
  
America sighed. “Alright… I’m taking you back to the room.”  
  
England looked as if he was about to protest, but America just shook his head, grabbed England’s hand and pulled him forward, tugging the arm around his shoulders and wrapping his arm around England’s waist, helping him stand.  
  
“Come on, big guy,” America muttered. He glanced up at the television as they began walking. His team had won.  
  
England slumped against him, stumbling. They got out of the bar and England slumped more, looking as if he might have passed out for a moment. America stared at him, kept his grip on his waist tight, before England groggily lifted his head, staring up at America, his green eyes glassy and looking straight through him.  
  
America pressed the button calling for the elevator and sighed, mourning his wasted night having to babysit someone hundreds of years older than him.  
  
“Ridiculous,” America muttered.  
  
“No… you’r…”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.”  
  
“Ye—you selfish. Fucking. I dun why I put up with you…ou…”  
  
America’s mouth twitched and he looked away as England’s head lolled along America’s shoulder, face pressing into the front of his shirt, and breathing a bit heavily. He bit into the fabric of his shirt, stuffing it into his mouth and still mumbling out words that America couldn’t quite pick out and didn’t want to if they were just insults anyway. England bit into it, mouthing along so that his hot breath and teeth pressed against his skin through his shirt.  
  
The elevator’s door dinged open and England suddenly stumbled towards it, and America veered after him, caught off guard and only just managed to keep the two of them upright. England moved like one leg was stuck in molasses and the other the open air, moving slowly and swaying and dipping even in the short distance between where they stood and the elevator.  
  
“At least you reminded me why I shouldn’t ever drink with you…”  
  
“Weren’t,” England mumbled into his shirt, breathing ragged and voice muffled around cotton. “You and yer stupid fucking game and your stupid fucking way of looking so stupidly fucking bea—”  
  
England, at least, seemed capable of restraining himself a little as he abruptly cut himself off and pulled his face away from America’s chest.  
  
The bitching renewed full-force a few moments later. “Bastard—too hard t’breathe.”  
  
“Huh,” America said, or more like exhaled. He bit the inside of his cheek and watched as England tried to pull away from him completely, one hand flailing out to grab America’s hair again and ending up seizing his nose. “Hey—”  
  
England was drooling on his shirt again, staring up at him with teary eyes.  
  
“Fuck,” America breathed.  
  
“Fuc’yo,” England agreed, or seemed to agree, because it was hard to tell what, exactly, he was saying around the mouthful of America’s shirt.  
  
America half-nudged, half-shoved England out of the elevator once they reached their floor. They stumbled and tripped down the hallway until they got to their room. America grasped England tightly as he fiddled around in his pocket, searching for the cardkey. When he found it, he slid it through the lock and was grateful when he heard the lock snap away and he could open the door.  
  
England clung to America, nose in his ear and then turning away so that he could press his mouth against his drool-covered shirt again, mumbling more insults and obscenities to America that America chose not to listen to.  
  
“Hurts to breathe,” England muttered.  
  
America frowned, and felt a jolt of worry settle in the pit of his stomach for a moment. He reached up and loosened the tie knotted at England’s neck. He pulled it off from under the collar, and it popped up on one side, haphazard.  
  
“Better?” he asked, frowning.  
  
“Fuck,” England breathed.  
  
America guided England toward the bed, hand on his shoulders. He sat him down on the bed and started unbuttoning his shirt for him. England watched the proceedings with slightly crossed eyes, his breathing shallow and his eyes bleary and unfocused.  
  
“You gonna be alright? Hungry?”  
  
“… ‘M gonna be ill.”  
  
“I swear to God, if you barf on any of my stuff I’ll be so pis—angry.”  
  
“Jus’ sleep…”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” America agreed, and still felt tipsy himself, though England was possibly the most effective buzz-kill in the history of ever. “Sleep it off… you’ll be okay in the morning. Probably hung-over again. Let’s not drink anymore on this trip, okay?”  
  
England closed his eyes, and tried to steady his breathing. He reached out a hand and patted America’s cheek and America felt a rare moment of warmth flush through his chest and settled in the pit of his stomach.  
  
“Yer bastard,” England muttered.  
  
And as quickly as the wave of affection hit him, it quickly retreated. America sighed and closed his eyes, worrying his lower lip and shoving against England so that he was lying on his back. England was blinking up at him when America opened his eyes again, leaning over him. He looked tired, and dazed. America frowned at him, trying to tell himself that he wasn’t hurt by England’s behavior and was really just annoyed at having missed his game and at having such an idiot for a road trip companion.  
  
“Dun look at me like tha,” England demanded.  
  
“Even when you’re drunk you tell me what to do,” America muttered, and shook his head. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his frown etched into the lines of his face now.  
  
“Can’t help it. You do so much wrong. Christ.”  
  
America did not cringe, and instead just shook his head and huffed out a small, aggravated sigh. “Go to hell, England.”  
  
His voice was surprisingly chipper, forcefully bright and cheery. He tried to grin, tell himself he wasn’t bothered by all this.  
  
“Christ,” England said again.  
  
“So much blasphemy on this trip,” America muttered.  
  
“Yo n’Jesus,” England agreed. “Like this.”  
  
He held up his two fingers, and crossed them. He waved his hand about for a moment, as if trying to drive home the importance of such a statement before his hand slipped into a more obscene gesture and eventually dropped down uselessly to England’s side, flopped and not moving after that.  
  
“You’re a dick,” America told him.  
  
England snorted a laugh, though it sounded bitter. And drunk. Very drunk.  
  
“I already know you dun like me,” England commanded, and sounded so absolutely sure of this fact that America was already opening his mouth to agree.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You dun like me.”  
  
“You’re an asshole,” America agreed. “But what the hell, England? You’re the one who doesn’t like me. I know that.”  
  
England scooted along the bed, until his head hit the pillow. He groaned, spreading out and making himself comfortable on the bed. He stared at the ceiling.  
  
America sat down on the edge, looking over at him before looking away, face glum and expression subdued, something he wasn’t used to being. Everyone always told him he was too over the top, too heavy to deal with. He kicked off his shoes, then reached over and pulled off England’s socks and shoes for him.  
  
He looked over, about to say more, but realized that England had already passed out—or at least was on the verge of sleep. America sighed, dropping his shoes on the floor next to America’s before standing and approaching the head of the bed, where England was just beginning to snore.  
  
“You’re a huge asshole,” America told him, sitting down beside him.  
  
He leaned over and finished unbuttoning England’s shirt, slipping it off his shoulders and leaving him only in his undershirt. He pulled off his belt for him, being careful not to touch anything unnecessarily and lead to an awkward situation that America would very much like to avoid.  
  
He looked up at England’s face, lax in sleep and the snores evening out to just deep breathing.  
  
He leaned over him then, hands anchored to the bed on either side of England’s head. He looked down at him, studying his face. He frowned, his vision swimming a moment as the alcohol caught up with him. England breathed out a small sigh, his head lolling to the side along the pillow, hair falling in his face.  
  
America lifted a hand and brushed it away for him, pushing his hair away from his forehead and his touch lingering.  
  
“I don’t dislike you,” America finally relented.  
  
His hold on the sheets beneath him tightened, his fingers curling. His eyelids dropped down to half-mast as he stared down at England. The alcohol was making his vision fuzzy, and his head felt too heavy. He sank down, closer to England. He leaned over him, his mouth parting slightly so he could breathe out very softly.  
  
England didn’t move, his expression gentled by sleep. America didn’t realize how close he was to England’s face until their noses bumped. America recoiled a bit, watching England.  
  
“You smell like alcohol,” America whispered, because England’s mouth was parted and he positively reeked.  
  
America stared at England’s mouth. His shoulders hurt. He was tired, things were too heavy. He wanted to sink in against England, because England was warm and inviting and when he was little, England would always hold him until he slept. He’d—  
  
His mouth parted and he sank ever lower, until his eyes went slightly cross-eyed. They flickered, staring at England’s parted mouth—inviting him—  
  
As easily as the alcohol dulled his senses, so, too, did he snap back to himself. His eyes expanded, shooting wide-open and staring straight at England’s face. His face burned bright red. He recoiled, so quickly and so violently that the bed actually shifted a few feet away from America as America himself scrambled away from England. In his haste, he fell over backwards onto his own bed, and cursed quietly.  
  
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”  
  
His face burning red, so warm it was uncomfortable, America rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face into his pillow.  
  
“Why the hell…?”  
  
He stayed like that, not letting himself think, until his breathing evened out. Then he nervously peeked out towards England, but England was just where he’d been left—sleeping and oblivious. America breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
It was with a growing pool of dread in his stomach that America fully began to realize what he’d just done—almost done, he reminded himself. He swallowed thickly, feeling as if he was choking. He had not—why had he almost kissed England? He bit his lip.  
  
He couldn’t leave England on his back like that. If he threw up he could choke. He stood up from his bed and moved back over to England. He hesitated just before reaching out a hand and touching his shoulder. He turned him over onto his side, so that his back was to America. England didn’t shift at all, just continued to slumber, knocked out by the alcohol and from the crying.  
  
America decided he drank too much. He pulled on pajamas and crawled into bed. He hid under the covers, pulling the comforter over his head and stuffing his face underneath his pillow. He curled into himself, trying to even out his breathing and not think about what _he just did, almost._  
  
He clenched his eyes shut again and he hadn’t realized he’d opened them again. But closing his eyes was just as bad, because he could see England’s face, flushed, mouth parted.  
  
He made a small, slightly strangled sound and rolled over onto his back, trying to smother himself with his pillow.  
  
“I’m drunk,” he decided. “I’m doing irrational things.”  
  
He tried to sleep, telling himself that he had not just almost kissed England, and that he certainly did not want to kiss England. He told himself it was simply because the alcohol made his head too heavy to hold up for very long.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning, America has some issues he needs to grapple with, while both of them head towards a boiling point.

America woke up the next morning, slumped in his bed, the covers pulled up close and his head smushed into the pillow. He woke up without even the slightest trace of a headache. He wasn’t hung-over.  
  
 _Fuck,_ was his first coherent thought once he collected his bearings and realized that the world was discernable but not painfully so. He hadn’t been that drunk in the end—  
  
“No, I just bounce back easily,” he whispered to his pillow, clenching his eyes shut to see if perhaps with a little patience the raging headache would come and punch him in the face. But it never came, and with a sigh of defeat, he sat up. He yawned, stretching slightly, and glancing over towards England.  
  
England still faced away from him, sleeping on his side, one arm hanging down off his bed so that the slightest whisper of his fingertips grazed he carpet. America studied his back for a moment. It didn’t smell like barf, which was a good sign. With a sigh, America stood up and padded over to England. He hesitated before approaching. He walked around to the other side of the bed, to look down at his sleeping face before letting out another small sigh and leaning over to examine England’s face, keeping a safe distance. England didn’t even stir; he was sleeping.  
  
He wasn’t even snoring. America realized his face was too close and he pulled away, straightening his back and feeling something coil in his chest. He really needed a distraction, and he needed to stop thinking about England—England, who never made any sense to him.  
  
“I don’t get you,” he whispered. He spoke before he realized what he was saying, and he frowned when he realized it really was true. Even though he’d known England for so long, there were still so many things he didn’t understand. And really, he reasoned, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to understand.  
  
England shifted in his sleep, brow furrowing, but otherwise did not wake.  
  
America opened his mouth, felt as if he was about to say something more, but nothing came out. He stared at England, slightly wide-eyed, as the events from last night returned to the forefront and he, once again, agonized over his—whatever it was. He’d been drunk. He’d been really drunk. He wasn’t hung-over today because he just bounced back really easily.  
  
America retreated, pressing a hand to his face and inhaling sharply, trying to settle the growing pit of shame in his stomach. No matter how hard he tried not to think about it, the more he thought about it. Which was really, really damn inconvenient at the heart of it.  
  
He didn’t want to look into why he did that—he was drunk, and that was it. Beyond that, it was too close. It was something, he decided, better left unknown.  
  
He sighed, irritated, and then wandered away to take a shower. The water was hot and refreshing, and his weak muscles slackened under the steady onslaught of warmed water. He closed his eyes, focusing on the warm water beating against his back until his shoulders turned red, his breath stilted and his mind desperately trying to wander and always navigating back to that one incident.  
  
“Useless,” he muttered. “Stop thinking about it.”  
  
His mind refused to listen to him.  
  
“I don’t even know why you did that, ya know.”  
  
He realized, belatedly, that talking to himself was probably not the sanest thing around, but he was far from caring, presently. It was too early in the morning. He focused on the water for a moment, the feeling of it slipping through his hair and down his back, warming him and cleaning him. He kept his eyes shut and his head bowed.  
  
“I’m not gay,” he said, decisively. “It’s definitely not something like that—and ew, gross, it’s England.” Something in his heart quivered and he wasn’t sure why. Words lodged in his throat but he managed to force them out after a few throat clearings, “Who’d want to kiss him? Definitely not me…” He laughed, loudly, his laughter echoing and booming off the walls and sounding just a little bit fake. “Nah, I just drank too much—did funny things to me, s’all.”  
  
The words sounded hollow in his ears, but he kept repeating it, under his breath, until he could pretend that he agreed. That was definitely the situation. England was an annoying person, who did all this annoying crap and never did anything but be really grumpy. He’d been annoying this entire trip, getting drunk and weepy as if expecting sympathy from him!  
  
And if he’d actually kissed him, America thought, he would probably have bitched about how he was a crappy kisser (even though he wasn’t) and how he lacked any finesse (which was not true).  
  
… Not that he would ever kiss England.  
  
Content for now, he bathed, rinsing his hair and his skin, scrubbing hard and whistling to himself. Slowly the whistling mounted into a full-on song and he swayed in time to the music and to the beat of the water pounding against his back and the floor of the tub.  
  
After a long shower, far longer than he normally would take, he left the bathroom, towel around his waist—only to nearly have a heart attack when he saw England up and not fully dressed yet. Nothing vital was showing, thankfully, but he looked far too casual, his hair a mess, his skin paled, and his shirt unbuttoned and wrinkled. America swallowed. The moment of shock was gone, and he was back to normal soon enough—nothing to report. But then England looked over at him and America felt his heart leap into his throat before crashing back down to his feet— _why the hell did it just do that?_  
  
England looked at him, momentarily confused by America’s deer in the headlights look, before he turned his attention away. He, at least, looked hung-over.  
  
“Singing The Smiths now, hm?” he asked, voice quiet.  
  
“Huh? Oh, yeah…” America laughed, loudly. “Were you listening?”  
  
“Hm,” England hummed to himself, not looking up from where he was stirring creamer into the coffee he’d made using the coffee machine that came with the hotel room. “It was impossible not to; you sing very loudly, America.”  
  
America made himself laugh. England fixed him with another calculating look that took all of America’s strength not to squirm under.  
  
“I’m surprised, that you wouldn’t bless me with another rendition of one of your country singers.”  
  
“Well, ya know… boner for British stuff,” America joked lamely and instantly regretted it because it sounded fake and he had to look away, feeling embarrassed because of what’d happened—almost happened, he corrected—the night before. Why was he so fixated on this? Why was he so obviously fixated on this? “You only heard me singing, right?”  
  
England gave him a funny look, before lifting up his mug and taking a long drink. He kept his eyes on America, calmed and looking only at him. It was unnerving, to have such undivided attention on him (and he usually jumped at the chance of having someone’s attention, too). He licked his lips when he pulled the mug away and America certainly did not stare back.  
  
“Yes, loathe as I am to hear it so early in this godforsaken morning,” England mumbled into his coffee mug. He rubbed his temple. “America, about last night…”  
  
“I didn’t do anything!” America said abruptly.  
  
England gave him a slightly flabbergasted look before his face closed off into a tensed expression. “America…” he began, in the ‘lecture voice’ again, “What…?”  
  
“Nothing,” America corrected, waving his hand. “How’s your head?”  
  
“Perfectly fine,” England said. He stared down at his coffee for a moment before rolling one shoulder, pensive.  
  
“So, what about last night?” America asked after the silence threatened to stretch on.  
  
“I was rather drunk,” England began.  
  
“Yeah, I kinda noticed…” America interrupted.  
  
England glared at him, eyes narrowed and expression annoyed. “Don’t get cheeky with me, boy.”  
  
“Right, right,” America muttered, sighing. _Why would anyone want to kiss him? He’s an asshole._  
  
Why was he still focusing on that?  
  
“I was drunk,” England started again, staring down at his coffee cup. “I don’t remember what I said, but I apologize if anything I said was…”  
  
America waved his hand when England trailed off. “Whatever, I was kinda drunk, too. I don’t remember anything you said.”  
  
It was a lie, and he had a feeling that England knew it just as much as America did. But England, blessedly, did not press it. America looked away. England looked after him, studying his face a moment—America could feel his eyes on him—before turning his face away as well. He drank his coffee, eyes hooded, face flushed.  
  
“Oh,” he said, easily, and it sounded like an understatement, it sounded as if he wanted to say more.  
  
“Really,” America said with a wave of his hand when England said nothing. “Doesn’t suit you to be all thoughtful, England. You look really weird.”  
  
England’s glare increased and he tensed up before closing his eyes and drinking his coffee. When he pulled away, he muttered, “Stupid idiot.”  
  
 _It’s really easy, isn’t it? To just say you’re drunk and forget anything happened,_ America thought, and then stared at his bare feet, at the damp spot of the carpet where he was standing. _God damn…_  
  
He looked up and found that England was watching him. America told himself his face was certainly not red. “Hey,” he said, licking his lips, “I’ll get us breakfast… uh, after I get dressed, at least.”  
  
England nodded, looking away once again. America was getting sick of the way he kept drifting to and away—either choose to look at him, or don’t. He wasn’t sure how he felt about England continually looking away from him.  
  
“Alright,” England said.  
  
“Great,” America said with a grin and stooped to collect his clothing. He hesitated, feeling awkward changing in front of England even though he realized, with renewed dread, that he’d done it plenty of times before. He swallowed, and then moved towards the bathroom. “I’ll just get changed and…”  
  
“Alright,” England said quietly, nodding.  
  
America locked the door behind him.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
After changing and leaving, America quickly got the food—he just went to the McDonald’s down the road and stopped by the coffee shop, too, because he had a huge craving for a mocha and he couldn’t make mochas in the hotel room. At least getting food, by himself in the car, he felt like he was back his element.  
  
And of course he kept thinking. He hated thinking. If only he could be as stupid as everyone claimed at times, able to shut his mind off at will and keep him from thinking about unnecessary things. But he couldn’t. And he lingered, quite a while, before parking the car. Then he lingered more, sitting in the car, sipping his mocha. Then he couldn’t prolong it any longer and got out of the truck, taking the food with him to get back to England.  
  
When he reentered, England was sitting at the table in the corner of the room, hair still wet from a shower he’d probably just taken, the water dripping down his neck to dampen the collar of his shirt. Wait his—  
  
“T-shirt?” America asked instead of greeting him.  
  
England looked up from where he was looking over something on America’s laptop, which he kept borrowing in the mornings when America’s attentions were elsewhere. America closed the door behind him and moved over towards England. England shut down whatever he was looking at on the computer and closed the lid.  
  
“Yes,” he said, lips thinned into a terse line. “Contrary to your opinions of me, I do not always wear ties.”  
  
“Frumpy,” America teased, grinning, happy that they seemed to have returned to their typical dynamic—being assholes and disingenuous. He could do that.  
  
He handed over the McDonalds food and a chai tea latte.  
  
England took them wordlessly and sipped the tea. He hadn’t asked for it, but he seemed to appreciate it, even if he didn’t thank him.  
  
“You’re welcome,” America said with a wide grin, flopping down easily into the chair on the other side of the table and taking a huge bite out of his second sausage mcmuffin.  
  
“Hm,” England hummed and sipped his tea, eyes hooded. He pushed the laptop back towards America, and picked up the complimentary newspaper the hotel gave guests. He skimmed over it, his green eyes flickering.  
  
America ate, but couldn’t stop staring at England. He kept thinking back, and kept reminding himself that it was nothing. Nothing happened, it didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t attracted to England, especially not England; he wasn’t gay. No way. Just because he’d had a momentary lapse in sanity after drinking and happened to be a breath’s inch away from kissing his friend—colleague—ally—whatever England was to him—didn’t mean anything whatsoever.  
  
God, why was his hair wet like that?  
  
Undoubtedly England must have felt America’s unrelenting gaze on him. England looked up from his newspaper and his face crumbled suspiciously. “What is it?”  
  
America continued staring at him, or, more likely, through him. Chin cushioned in his hand, he stared vacantly off into space. He didn’t hear England’s words. His mind reeled, lingering on things beyond this room, this time.  
  
England’s brows furrowed in frustration. “America?”  
  
America continued to stare, eyes glazed over and staring at England and yet through him. His mind whirled with excuses and justifications. England’s hair looked nice wet. It still stuck up in funny places, clung to his forehead. Water dripped down his neck occasionally, only for him to lift a hand and wipe it away, face always set in concentration so he could function without having to stop reading his newspaper.  
  
England rolled up his newspaper, leaned over, and slapped America upside the head with it.  
  
This shook America from his reverie and he jumped in surprise, grasping his head with a small shout of surprise. “Hey! What the hell, ow!”  
  
“Did you not sleep well, you brat? You’ve been out of it since you woke up,” England said with a frown. “Do you want me to drive today?”  
  
“Huh?” America asked, expression blanked, before England’s words connected with his brain. He realized, deep down inside, somewhere, that maybe England was worried. Maybe he was acting weird. But it was England’s fault.  
  
“Driving,” England said again. “Do you want me to do the driving today?”  
  
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.”  
  
England still looked skeptical, and vaguely concerned, over America’s behavior but America was too busy averting his eyes to care.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“I’m thinking about it too much,” he told his reflection in the bathroom of their motel. They were getting ready to leave. Hands braced on either side of the sink, he leaned forward, scrutinizing himself with a critical frown. Blue eyes stared back at him over the rims of his glasses. Mushy, dirty golden hair fell in his eyes and he stubbornly refused to brush them away while scrutinizing—it was a very important art, after all.  
  
England, in his typical fashion, interrupted him by pounding on the door. “America, you’ve been in there for twenty minutes, for fuck’s sake what are—” America released a sigh and wrenched the door open, catching England in mid-rant “—you doi—oh, well then.”  
  
“Hi,” America greeted with a grin. “S’all yours.”  
  
“Yes, well.” England cleared his throat and pushed his way past America, shoulders bumping together as he passed.  
  
America ducked out of the way and retreated to the safety of the motel room. He flopped on his bed, grinning absently up at the ceiling. Tucking his arms behind his head, pillowing them, he focused on not thinking. Which was, for all the times England insulted him about not thinking, surprisingly hard. Because when there was something he didn’t want to think about, he couldn’t help but agonize over it.  
  
When England came back out, America propped his head up, watching England. “Hey, England?”  
  
“Hm?” England asked, not looking up from his bag, where he was replacing his toothbrush and bathroom kit.  
  
“Do you think I’m a homophobe?”  
  
The question must have knocked England completely off guard because he sputtered a moment and dropped his toothbrush. “Do I think you’re what?”  
  
America sat up, frowning, crossing his legs Indian-style. “Cause like on one hand I don’t care what other people do or who they like, ya know? So long as they’re happy or whatever. But I don’t want to do that kinda stuff.”  
  
“America, you daft—” England cut himself off with a shake of his head and a small sigh. He pressed a hand to his face, as if marveling at something too overwhelmingly ridiculous (probably America’s stupidity). And then he almost smiled, which must have been a good sign, though America certainly hadn’t expected the expression. His hand fell away. He looked towards America and zipped up his bag. “No, America. That just means you’re straight.”  
  
“I guess,” America said with a frown. _Then why can’t I stop thinking about kissing you?_  
  
“You only guess?” England asked and the distinctly amused expression melted away, replaced with the concerned expression from earlier that America also was not too used to seeing. “Did something happen last night?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“In the bar, with one of the other people there,” England asked, eyebrows knitted together. “I can’t remember a damned thing from last night but—did someone make a pass at you?”  
  
“Huh?” America almost laughed by the sheer absurdity of the situation, but managed to bite it back. He shook his head, a bit over-enthusiastically. “No, no! Nothing like that… I was just, ha ha, um, wondering?”  
  
England looked unconvinced.  
  
America flapped his hand about, trying to be dismissive like England was with his hand gestures. Instead he only seemed to flail for a moment before his hand flopped back down to his side. “I promise, England. None of the dudes there were hitting on me.”  
  
“Then why the question?” England asked.  
  
America bit his lip. “I was just thinking about it… and I keep thinking about it and I can’t stop thinking about it and I just can’t figure out why I’m thinking about it—”  
  
“Thinking about what?”  
  
America opened his mouth to speak, but quickly restrained himself from the impulse. He stared at England, collecting his words.  
  
“Being a jerk,” America said, frowning. “I don’t want to discriminate against anybody—people, not just mine, do that enough as it is, ya know? Even if policies in place say otherwise sometimes…” He laughed, nervously, realizing he was rambling and half-expecting England to reprimand him for that. But England was silent, sitting down on his own bed and listening to America patiently. America swallowed, and continued, “No matter what, they’re still my people? Or your people, or Canada’s people, or whatever!”  
  
“That’s an admirable stance to have, America,” England said, voice so gentle that it took America off guard. America very pointedly tried to ignore the way a block of ice passed through his chest, making him shiver.  
  
“So you don’t think that I’m…?”  
  
England shook his head, and the gentleness melted away to amusement. “I don’t. Just because you prefer to sleep with women—” America blushed and sputtered slightly at that, but England continued, “—doesn’t mean that you’re discriminating against others. You can still be straight and still give your support. It’s called being an ally.”  
  
“Well, yeah, I know that,” America admitted. He scratched the back of his head, feeling a bit sheepish for this conversation. He didn’t want to be preachy, and he didn’t want to sound stupid, either, or bigoted or—or gay. Which reminded him. “Is it bad then that I don’t want people to think I’m gay? Doesn’t that make it seem like I’m avoiding it because I think it’s a bad thing?”  
  
“People are saying that, America?” England asked, eyebrows raised.  
  
America shook his head. “That isn’t what I meant.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
America flopped down onto the bed and covered his face with his arms. “I dunno. Hypothetically. For future reference? Dunno.”  
  
“I think you do know,” England said, his voice quickly falling back into the ‘lecture voice’, much to America’s chagrin. “But perhaps you don’t wish to say it?”  
  
“I can say it if I want,” America muttered against the fabric of his shirtsleeve.  
  
“Why don’t you?”  
  
America was quiet a moment. Then he spoke. “If I say that I don’t care what they do, that they’ll still be my people no matter what, and how can I blame them for wanting to be who they are—but then I actively do shit because I don’t want people to think I’m not straight and worry that people will get the wrong impression—doesn’t that make me kinda, I dunno, a hypocrite?”  
  
“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done hypocritical things,” England said gently.  
  
“Shut up,” America grumbled. “You’re not helping me here.”  
  
“I don’t understand where this conversation is coming from,” England admitted, and he, too, sounded a bit unsure. America heard him shifting, heard him lying back on his own bed. America tried not to imagine what he would look like then, but still couldn’t resist taking a peek. England was staring up at the ceiling, face smoothed into thoughtful expression, with only his forehead scrunched up in thought.  
  
“I guess it kinda came outta nowhere,” America confessed.  
  
“Perhaps,” England agreed.  
  
“I just… I dunno.”  
  
“Why do you think you think this way?”  
  
“I mean—I know it’s dumb, and shit, but I just can’t help thinking about all those stupid stereotypes about it. Like what France said before. That if you’re close with another man, that means you want to sleep with him.” America scrunched his face up. “Maybe that’s just France, but, ya know. And just… And I hate that I can let things like that have an effect on me, but, well—I guess it does.”  
  
“Things like that never truly go away. Or, at least, it takes time.”  
  
“Yeah…”  
  
They lapsed into silence.  
  
America, as always, was the one to break it. “Hey, England?”  
  
“Yes, America?” England asked, a sigh in his voice.  
  
America rolled over, face cushioned into his pillow, so that he could look at England. England must have felt his gaze on him, because he turned his head, too. A lock of blond hair fell into his eyes but he didn’t brush it aside. America couldn’t keep eye contact, so he kept his focus on that piece of hair.  
  
“You don’t think I’m a hypocrite now, do you?”  
  
England thought this over, and though America wished he would have just come out and said his thoughts, it also reassured America to know that England was thinking over the question, critically, collecting his words. But it stretched on for such a long silence, such a long time that England’s darkened green eyes stared only at him. America almost wanted to look away, but he remained strong, steadying his eyes on England, holding his gaze.  
  
England licked his lips and America stared at his mouth. But then England started speaking and he had to remember to concentrate on the piece of hair.  
  
“I don’t think so,” England said at last.  
  
America perked up. “Really?”  
  
England shook his head. “Everyone wants to be able to be honest about themselves, without fear of being judged. You should be able to do anything, say anything, without worrying that someone will make a judgment of you based on that.”  
  
“Yeah…” America said, frowning.  
  
“But, even if your country has some laws and rules in place that could be considered bad, and people with attitudes that are less than desirable,” England continued, thinking over his words carefully before speaking, “The ideal of you and your people is still there. As nations, we have so many voices in our heads for our people that it’s impossible to pinpoint one thing solidly. Your people, even if they don’t exactly execute the promise, and your policies, even if they’re not truly democratic… you are founded on ‘equality’ despite the ‘differences’, isn’t it so?”  
  
“Yeah,” America said, and found himself flushing with warmth at finally being understood by someone, even if it was someone like England. “Yeah… that’s right.”  
  
“And you are that embodiment of those ideals and promises, no matter what.” England wasn’t looking at him anymore, but America only realized this when his eyes slanted back to meet with America’s. They kept their gazes locked on one another. England tilted his head slightly as he spoke. “You are those ideals.”  
  
“But there are also my own thoughts, beyond my country’s founding premises, right?” America asked. “Things that belong to ‘me’.”  
  
“We are nations,” England said, which wasn’t an answer.  
  
“Yeah, but you have—uh—desires and needs and wants that are different from what ‘England’ and its ‘people’ want, right? You have thoughts and feelings that have to do with you yourself, don’t you?”  
  
England was very quiet for a moment, so quiet that America wondered if he’d insulted him or said something wrong. He stared at America for a long time, his expression smoothed into a purposefully blank expression. It seemed as if those green eyes were saying something, anchoring him, tugging him ever closer, like an unequivocal, undeniable gravity. America felt something bubble in his chest, the urge to say something, to have England say something to him. He was on the verge of words. His breath wouldn’t leave his lungs, caught and tethered.  
  
But then England shifted back onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, expression unreadable.  
  
“Yes. I do.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The drive that day moved slowly. America kept glancing at the clock, hoping for enough time to pass to justify stopping for the night. England was concerned, but never voiced anything other than a few snippy remarks that only made America want to cringe. America avoided speaking if he could, because he didn’t know what he wanted to say to England, if anything. It was easier to just ignore the situation and pretend it wasn’t there. Because, in the end, it wasn’t even supposed to be that big of a deal, and America’s continued insistence upon it was more than grating. He replied to England in short, clipped sentences which only served to annoy England. He would insult America, then, sometimes passive aggressively, sometimes downright blatantly. America was far too used to being insulted by him. He tried not to think.  
  
It wasn’t that he was a coward, or that he hated the—wait.  
  
He derailed those thoughts quite promptly. He was not thinking about kissing England—never mind that his entire thought process centered around that (insignificant!) thought of his, which he’d had while _drunk._  
  
 _If you’re drunk, it hardly counts for anything,_ America decided firmly to himself, the cogs in his head turning a mile a minute as America and England passed by the scenery outside at sixty miles an hour. _Drinking to get your problems or thoughts sorted out or acted upon is the cowardly way._  
  
His eyes slanted towards England, whose eyes were on the road.  
  
They’d been getting along, lately, too, he thought glumly. At least, as well as they could get along. England was still his snippety self, and never quite being able to get rid of that jerkiness about him that America always hated and always pretended didn’t bother him. They’d been getting along okay on the trip thus far, at least… and even before then, they’d been doing okay. The fighting they exchanged in meetings and in passing had almost become teasing. Before, whenever they met, it was always a little awkward or a little tense or a little unsure—the past, shared history often did that, his boss had told him once, as if he could have had any idea about the feelings and problems of “nations”. And England always held on so tightly to the past, probably just because he was so old.  
  
So what if England was kind of a jerk—always calling America stupid and self-centered? America was not stupid. And it wasn’t like every other country in the world wasn’t concerned about itself, too. But that was beside the point.  
  
America derailed his thoughts again, though this time simply because he didn’t want to think about politics—and he knew that England was only doing all this because he wanted to avoid work. Or to relax. Or whatever it was that he’d wanted to do and that America wasn’t absolutely sure he actually _was_ doing.  
  
And though America tried his hardest to overturn his thoughts, so quickly did they maneuver down the same kind of path again. Why had he almost kissed England?  
  
America knew about the nature of nations, obviously. He understood that “relations” were necessary at times, marriages to create commonwealths and empires, sexual affairs for the sake of solidifying treaties or alliances. America understood things like this. It didn’t mean he liked to think about what other people did, of course. It was their business and if they were happy that was that. America had no qualms whatsoever about what nations, or his own citizens for that matter, did in the privacy of their home.  
  
He just couldn’t help but shift nervously while thinking about it in the case of him. It wasn’t because England was a dude, he reasoned to himself, tried to reason to himself, it was because it was _England._  
  
“And who’d ever wanna kiss that?” America crowed loudly, perhaps in a subconscious attempt to break the silence.  
  
England jumped at the sudden breaking of the silence and turned his head towards America briefly, a question in his green eyes before returning his attentions back to the road. America felt himself flush at his own carelessness and cleared his throat.  
  
“What?” England asked, looking annoyed. “What stupidity are you spouting out now?”  
  
“Nothing,” America protested.  
  
 _England always had too good of a bullshit detector,_ America thought as England’s eyes narrowed. He looked mildly like an offended bird, ruffling up and puffing up a bit. But then again… that hadn’t been very subtle. At all.  
  
England sucked in a sharp breath, annoyed by America’s failed avoidance, his cheeks puffing up a bit with held breath. America, grinning, leaned over and poked England in the cheek. Hot air rushed out past his slightly puckered lips in a whoosh and America watched the exchange with a forced laugh and an inward reassurance that he was _not staring at England’s mouth!_  
  
America did not want to interpret anything that’d happen the night before as anything more than a drunken mistake. Nothing had happened, he corrected. Nothing had happened, he’d caught himself and brought himself back to his senses. Pulling himself up by his bootstraps—haha, yeah.  
  
“Fine, if you want to be a fool off in your own mind and not say anything of worth, it’s none of my concern,” England snapped, and was no longer looking at America, thank god. He kept driving, but looked substantially less relaxed than before, and only annoyed and offended. “Perhaps you’re simply too stupid to say what you’re thinking.”  
  
America stiffened up but for the moment preferred England ignoring him to anything else. He bit his tongue, tried his hardest not to say anything. His shoulders sagged. He managed to restrain himself, but he practically strained something doing so.  
  
Face red, he looked away out the window, and thus missed the concerned expression England shot his way.  
  
They drove in silence until they reached the hotel for the night. They didn’t speak. They went to bed early.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The next morning they woke up and drove. Upon England’s insistence not to have diner food or McDonald’s for breakfast, they stopped by a bakery. America drove while England periodically handed him bits of a cinnamon roll. America tried very, very hard not to pay attention to the fact that England was _feeding him, Jesus Christ._  
  
It was considerably less romantic than it sounded—thank god, America thought—because England spent the entire time bitching about how messy his hands and clothes were getting from the crumbs and the icing on the monstrosity against all things healthy (his words, not America’s). America, at this point, was annoyed at himself and at England so offered no sympathy or condolences to England’s plight, aside from a biting “your life is really hard, huh?” which England found less than comforting. Good.  
  
America hadn’t slept well. He kept tossing and turning, agonizing over England’s words—agonizing over the look he’d given him, the look he couldn’t place and wasn’t sure he wanted to place. He kept going back to that moment when he’d almost ruined everything—where he, America was beginning to think, had already ruined everything. It was all his mind would think about, against all his attempts to do otherwise. And it was leaving him annoyed and irritable, frustrated. He couldn’t stand. That kind of feeling wasn’t something he wanted to experience, and he hated the constant replay of what could have happened, as if it had actually happened.  
  
They drove for several hours in silence, across stateliness and not saying a word. England watched the monotony travel by with a practiced patience he’d acquired after decades of seafaring with only endless water to satisfy his ever-gazing eye.  
  
Several hours passed like this, and America was thankful for the lack of communication—that was what they did best, after all. If he turned the music up far too loud, it drowned out his thoughts and England’s bitching. Best of both worlds.  
  
They were near the state line for South Dakota when America veered off the interstate they’d taken for the last few states. England looked up from his dazed staring out the window to give America a careful expression.  
  
“Are we running low on fuel?” he asked.  
  
“Nah, I just hate that we’ve been on the road for like a week and are halfway across the country and we haven’t even stopped at one tourist attraction.”  
  
England’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want—”  
  
“Frankly, England, I don’t care if you want to go or not. This is my truck, this is my highway, this is my state, and this is my goddamned tourist attraction. So you can kindly suck it.”  
  
England looked vaguely surprised by the harshness of America’s tone, and recoiled slightly, giving him an exasperated expression that only made America more annoyed. Then England’s thick eyebrows slammed down over his eyes, as they narrowed.  
  
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” England demanded.  
  
“We’re going to Mt. Rushmore and you’re gonna like it,” America insisted instead of answering.  
  
He cranked the music up even louder when England opened his mouth to talk, successfully shutting England up while splitting his eardrums until they felt as if they would bleed. And he just couldn’t bring himself to care.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“It’s granite, ya know. Random granite pluton in the mica, s’why the faces themselves are white while they’re in the black hills,” America said absently, leaning forward on the guardrail, arms crossed and face turned towards the immortalized faces of his past presidents. “The magma pooled inside it and ended up freezing like that, and then erosion exposed it.”  
  
England didn’t look at him, and America, glancing at the other nation out of the corner of his eye, watched him roll his eyes heavenward. “Hm.”  
  
America, frankly, didn’t care if England didn’t care. He turned his attention back towards the faces in the distance.  
  
“It’s kind of cool, geology,” America said absently. He was grinning but his eyes were wide and distant, and England realized that something was breaking down.  
  
“I’m shocked you can understand something so complex,” England said, his voice biting and clipped.  
  
America did not cringe, though he wanted to. Instead, he curled his hands into fists. “Believe it or not, I’m actually not a dumbass.”  
  
“You hide your intelligence remarkably well, then,” England said, coolly.  
  
“Shut the fuck up,” America muttered, the words bitter in his mouth. He’d reached his boiling point—all the stress since that damned night, all the annoyance towards England’s attitude—it was too much to hold in.  
  
“Why should I? I’m honestly surprised,” England said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.  
  
“You don’t have to say shit like that. I already _know_ you think I’m stupid.”  
  
“You’ve never given me reason to believe otherwise,” the other nation said, snippety.  
  
America flared up, looked ready to say something, but the sag in his shoulders made it clear that what England said hurt him. He pulled away from England, inched so there was more distance between the two of them, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He glared up at his famous presidents and tried to ignore the way his heart dropped down to his toes, his face flushed with anger.  
  
“I already know you guys all think I’m stupid and loud and obnoxious and too big for my own good,” America snapped suddenly, and fueled on by his aggression whipped his head over towards England, who looked up at him with the condescending look an adult acquires when faced with a tantrum-throwing toddler. This, of course, only fueled America further, “No matter what the fuck I do you’re always going to say that, huh? You’re such an asshole, England.”  
  
“America—”  
  
“Go to hell,” America snapped, and almost actually snarled. The other visitors to the tourist attraction glanced at the two uneasily before slowly moving away from the arguing men, dragging their children away before America could curse more.  
  
England flared up, as predicted.  
  
It always reverted back to this. It didn’t matter how well they got along for however long, they always ended up fighting one another again—and to think America had actually thought their fights had reverted back to simple teasing. He glared full-on at England, who heatedly returned his gaze with an equally as angered glare.  
  
“So, what? You didn’t want to go to any of my tourist attractions because you think they’re all stupid like _me?_ ”  
  
“Yes,” England shot back easily and locked his jaw a moment before releasing a long, aggravated sigh. He threw his hand out towards the mountain, accusing. “They’re perfectly ostentatious, overbearing, and foolish—just like you, just like you’ve always been!”  
  
“Fuck you!”  
  
“That’s so easy to say when you don’t have anything else to say, huh?” England demanded, and actually had the gall to smirk at America, as if he’d already won their argument. He crossed his arms, ruffling up while still managing to look self-satisfied and aggravated in the same expression.  
  
“Why the hell did you want to just drive around in my country if you fucking hate it so much?”  
  
“I hadn’t intended to leave New England and—”  
  
“—Oh, you _would_ only want to stay there—”  
  
“—then I was stuck with you for a companion.”  
  
“If you hate my company so much why the hell am I even here?”  
  
“Because you _insisted_ like the stupid idiot that you are! It was easier just to let you come along than to put up with your pouting and whining over me telling you not to come.”  
  
“God!” America shouted, his voice rising steadily in octave as the argument progressed. He was shaking, eyes narrowed and face contorted in rage. “You are such an asshole!”  
  
“You already said that,” England barked. “Quit repeating yourself like the fool you already are.”  
  
“I don’t know why the fuck I even bothered, either,” America shouted back. “You’ve just been a huge dick this entire time—always bitching and complaining and never saying ‘hey, thanks America, you’re pretty cool’ or ‘Sorry, America, I’m kind of being a huge bastard right now but you’re still pretty cool’!”  
  
“I have not been bitching the entire time,” England protested.  
  
“Yes you have!” America shot back, as if expecting England’s denial and rebutting it without missing a beat after he spoke it. “Christ, I haven’t heard anything but a complaint from you!”  
  
“Well I certainly have a lot to be unhappy about, having to deal with you and—”  
  
“Shut _up_!” America shouted, his voice booming. “God, fuck you! Just, fuck you, England!”  
  
“That’s all very easy to say isn’t it? Honestly.”  
  
But America was clutching his hair, looking as if ready to pull it out and shaking with rage and, England recognized distantly, hurt. His feelings were hurt, and it was evident all over his face. No matter how hard he tried, America couldn’t hide his feelings that well, if at all.  
  
“I don’t understand why you’re always such a huge asshole, aren’t you supposed to be my _friend_ or something?”  
  
England snorted, loudly, as if the very idea was preposterous.  
  
America was still shaking, and he slanted his eyes away, hands at his sides, curled into fists and shaking just as much as America’s shoulders.  
  
“You’re supposed to be one of the people—nations—closest to me and all you do is insult me,” America insisted, looking stricken and angry. He pointed an accusing finger at England before his hand dropped uselessly to his side again. He repeated, “Aren’t you supposed to be my friend?”  
  
“If it bothers you so much, why don’t you get new friends?”  
  
“Because I—”  
  
“Can’t,” England interrupted. “Because you’re a loud-mouthed, nosy, overzealous, and self-important fool of a child who can’t admit that he isn’t _popular_ right now, so he’s stuck with allies he takes advantage of and then gets insulted when they don’t bend over and suck his—”  
  
“Why the hell,” America interrupted, hurried, “would I want to get on with the world with people who don’t like me? It’s clear enough that if my _friends_ treat me the way you do, there’s no fucking _point_!”  
  
“And whose fault is it that they treat you like that?”  
  
“I’m sick of every fucking person just hating me—especially when it’s from people like you!”  
  
England tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t help it: he winced. He knew America thought what he was saying was true. America was unhappy, and hurt. He knew that. And England knew that situations like these were his own fault, his own fault that America, someone who he was closet to, someone that he held so dear, was under the impression that England could barely stand him. It was England’s own fault that their friendship revolved around the belief that they hated each other. And really, he certainly wasn’t saying or behaving in a way that suggested otherwise.  
  
“You’re loud, rude, and self-centered. You only care about yourself and what others can do to help you. You’re overbearing and don’t seem to realize when you’re not wanted or needed. You spout off ridiculous things like world peace and protection but as soon as someone doesn’t play by your rules you throw them to the curbside.” England sniffed, disdainful. “And your so-called ‘friends’? Are just people you keep by your side for your own benefit while at the same time refusing to acknowledge or be grateful for all the sacrifices they make.”  
  
“You—”  
  
“I refuse to indulge you,” England said tensely.  
  
“I’m not saying to ‘indulge’ me, fuck!” America cursed. “It’d just be nice for you to be _nice_ for once. I know the world fucking hates me and I know I’m a fucking idiot about a lot of things but that doesn’t mean you need to rub it in my face every chance you get and insult me every second of every day! It’d be nice to have some support, even a little bit.”  
  
“I have given you a lot of support,” England hissed, looking livid. “Or is that, after all the years, not good enough for you? After everything my country and administrations have done for you…”  
  
“I don’t mean politically! Or whatever,” America shouted. “I mean from you,” he shouted as he pointed from England to himself, “to me! As something that isn’t a ‘nation’ but as ‘you’! I’m not saying you need to kiss my ass or whatever—I just want you to be _honest_ with me.”  
  
“As if you’ve given me any reason to be honest,” England snapped.  
  
“What—”  
  
“You never say what you’re thinking.”  
  
“Neither do you!”  
  
“Because you—” England cut himself off with an angry sigh and a shake of his head. “I have no reason to be honest to someone who would just—be you. Laugh, or be insensitive or stupid or dismissive. Why the hell should I be honest to you?”  
  
“Because we’re friends! Fuck!”  
  
“Such an insistence on a mere fabrication!”  
  
“It isn’t a fucking fabrication to me!” America shouted, shaking and looking as if he was about ready to storm away.  
  
There was a long tensed silence and America’s fists uncurled and recurled several times.  
  
“It isn’t…” he said, his voice weaker now but still loud, still an almost shout. “But you just act like you don’t like me all the time.”  
  
“I don’t like you most of the time,” England said and did not elaborate on how long ‘most of the time’ was. He looked away. “In a lot of ways you aren’t very likeable, America.”  
  
America dropped his head a moment, face contorting a bit, before he lifted it again, staring defiantly down at England.  
  
Yet, when he spoke, his response was oddly passive: “Oh.”  
  
“That isn’t the point, though.”  
  
“Then what is the point?” America asked.  
  
“Is there ever a point to anything?” England shot back, and it wasn’t an answer to the question.  
  
America frowned, still looking insulted.  
  
“Oh.” America’s response was once again brief, and England waited for an addendum that never came. England glanced over and found America with his arms crossed over his chest, staring pensively down at the ground.  
  
And then he started walking away, his hands in his pockets and eyes to the ground. The move in itself was surprising, but the way that America almost looked dejected was slightly off-putting for England. England could imagine that there was just the slightest touch of a pout to his expression, but when he moved after America to follow him, he saw the boy’s expression as simply crestfallen and closed-off.  
  
“America…” England began.  
  
“Leave me alone. I’m going back to the car.”  
  
“America—”  
  
“Let’s just drop it.”  
  
“No,” England insisted and sped up so that he could block America’s beeline for the truck. America stopped, hands in his pockets but looking more morose now than heartbroken— _why had he looked like that?_ —and he gave England something of a half-heartedly glare when he tried to sidestep around England and England refused to let him.  
  
America was nothing but trouble, it seemed. He’d been hurting England since before he’d reached England’s shoulder height—he’d been everywhere and nowhere all at once, demanding attention and seeking attention, even bad attention. But he’d forgotten that, behind all the energy, all the bravado, America was just a young child, and a young child who wanted to know he was needed.  
  
Which didn’t excuse the fact that he was being a right moron, of course. But, England supposed upon hindsight, he had been unfriendly the last week, and really, aside from his overbearing nature, America hadn’t done anything wrong. His enthusiasm was part of his charm. Or something.  
  
“I don’t see why this bothers you so much.”  
  
America stiffened, looking away from him. It took a moment of silence from America for England to realize that he was hurt by the comment, as well. It wasn’t that England hadn’t expected it to hurt—he had a habit of making sure the things he said hurt—what he hadn’t expected as how visibly hurt the boy seemed by it.  
  
“My lad…”  
  
“Shut up,” America muttered. “It doesn’t bother me.”  
  
England gave him a skeptical look.  
  
America looked away again. “I just—I try not to let it bother me. But I can’t help it. If it’s from everybody, even my own people, it just builds up or something. I just can’t deal with being insulted and not taken seriously all the god damn time.”  
  
“America…”  
  
“Just shut up,” America snapped. “You don’t have to insult me and if you’re a ‘friend’ just for political reasons, that’s fine—at least be honest about it or something.”  
  
“Aren’t you never honest, either?”  
  
“I am too.”  
  
“About some things perhaps,” England said lightly, though the razor edge of his annoyance still lingered in his words. “But mostly, you say things that’ll get you what you want, or are purposefully misleading. Or you’re just avoidant.” England looked up at him. “Why would I want to be honest to someone who isn’t honest to me?”  
  
“You aren’t honest to me,” America protested.  
  
“Do you trust me?” England asked.  
  
“Do you trust _me?_ ” America insisted.  
  
They stared at one another, both refusing to relent first. They stayed like that in a strained silence.  
  
When neither said anything, when neither rose to answer the question, they slowly slipped away from each other, each taking a step back.  
  
America looked away and, as was natural to him, was the one to break the silence. “I’ve done a lot of stuff for you over the years—for your country and government and for ‘you’. Don’t you think I deserve at least a little trust? Damn it.”  
  
“And I for you as well,” England shot back. They started walking, wandering back towards America’s truck. They lapsed into silence for a moment before England added, “I’ve made a lot of sacrifices for you, and for you it’s either not good enough or worthy to forget.”  
  
America paused in his step but England kept walking, so America quickly kept up his pace so that he was walking side by side with England.  
  
“You’ve been a huge jerk this entire trip.”  
  
“I’m tired,” England muttered. “I’d intended for this to be short and simple, enough for me to relax before I flew back home. Having you along was a bump in the road, it would seem. The things you do to my blood pressure, America.”  
  
“Then why not kick me out? Or leave yourself?”  
  
England looked up at him, and then looked away.  
  
They reached the truck without a word.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Montana skies are the clearest, and driving leaves you restless.

No words passed between them as they climbed into the truck and left the tourist trap. They drove in silence for about an hour, morose and tensed. The landscape stretched on beyond them, the sky cleared. The truck was thick with tension, with unspoken words. The only sound was the grinding of the engine, the sound of their breathing, the distant sounds of the world outside. England looked out the window and refused to look at America. America drove, his hands clenching the steering wheel until he was sure he would crush the metal beneath his overly large hands.   
  
He let out a long sigh, and hoped it was quiet enough that England wouldn’t notice. But in such a thick silence, even the slightest shift, the slightest breath, was enough to alert the other to movement. America kept his eyes on the road ahead of him, scanning the horizon, unable and unwilling to let his eyes linger on one spot, taking everything in as he drove and navigated the straight highway.   
  
He pursed his lips and when he glanced over at England he saw that England was looking at him, studying his profile. He should go back to looking out the window any minute now, America thought. But England didn’t. Their eyes locked. America startled a moment, almost recoiling, before giving England a slightly strained, unsure look.   
  
Simultaneously, they turned away from one another.   
  
“So…” America began, and then wasn’t sure what it was he wanted to say.  
  
“What?” England asked with a sigh.  
  
It sounded too accusatory, so America sighed, too. “Nothing.”   
  
England scoffed, not looking at him. “Would you stop looking like that?”  
  
“Like what?” America asked.   
  
“Like you’re playing the victim,” England snapped, “again.”   
  
America stiffened up, glaring at England out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not playing the victim, shut up.”  
  
“You always do that—act all high and mighty and then as soon as someone calls you out on your ridiculousness, you play the ‘oh woe is me’ card,” England shot back, ruffling up. It seemed he truly was on the aggressive, unwilling to let their fight go, no matter how much America tried to ignore the tension between them. England suspected he was simply playing the martyr.   
  
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” America muttered.  
  
“I don’t let oversized babies, who consider being bossy to be a suitable form of friendship, to order me around, America,” England said calmly, and pretended not to see the way America cringed at the statement.  
  
“I’m not playing the victim,” America protested.  
  
“Certainly not, because pouting like a tantrum throwing toddler after a fight isn’t playing the victim. Looking at me, with that stupidly earnest and puppy dog-eyed face of yours.”   
  
America’s face screwed into a deeper frown. “I said I wanted to drop it, England.”  
  
“Fine,” England huffed.  
  
They drove in silence.  
  
The silence was very unbearable.   
  
“And another thing,” America said suddenly, because apparently he couldn’t follow his own advice. “Like you’re the one to talk about the victim shit—you do it all the time.”  
  
“What I said before had merit,” England said, snippety.  
  
“Same with what I said,” America snapped back. “You just never take anything I say seriously because obviously I’m an idiot.”   
  
“You hardly say anything serious.”   
  
America’s jaw clenched and he looked at England in deathly silence. He waited until England turned to look at him, too, before saying, dead in the eye, “I hate you.”   
  
England recoiled, and this time he was the one to cringe.   
  
America turned back towards the highway, clenching the steering wheel, telling himself that, yes, he hated England. He should have known that tagging along with him was a bad idea, should have known there was no way they could be friends or trust one another or be nice to one another. It was much easier to just fall back on this, to let them fall back into the routine of silently hating one another’s guts with the rare moments of genuine human emotion. If England wanted to think he was an uncultured, unintelligent moron, then so be it. He’d just convince himself that England was nothing but a crotchety old man with no sliver of sympathy beyond his own decaying sense of dignity and propriety.   
  
After that they fell again into the silence, but it seemed all the life had seeped out of England, leaving him staring, rather morose, at the truck’s glove compartment, as if waiting for it to burst open. His shoulders were slumped, and America almost felt bad that his words affected England enough to ruin his posture.   
  
Good.  
  
Except it was a hollow victory, and soon America found himself feeling morose as well. They drove on in silence. A few times he turned towards England, opened his mouth to speak—but no words came out. He watched England, who was angled away from him now, looking out the window. He traced the line of his jaw with his eyes, the slump of his shoulders and the bow of his neck. Again, his words failed him.  
  
He turned back towards the road, concentrated on that because at least the monotony of driving never failed him or changed or became unpredictable—at least, not all the time. Concentrating as he was, he missed the way England turned to look at him occasionally, expression closed off.   
  
“England, I…” America began before he realized what he was saying.   
  
England glanced at him. Cautiously, he asked, “What?”   
  
They exchanged a glance before, wounded, England slanted his eyes away, face pressed into a grim line. America clenched the steering wheel tightly.   
  
“It was a lie,” America muttered. He didn’t hate him.  
  
England’s shoulders sagged but he didn’t say anything for a long moment. He turned away again. “Ah.”  
  
“Yeah…” America began, and then trailed off when no words came to him. England did not respond, and America realized, vaguely, that he desperately wanted England to say something—anything—because he couldn’t stand this unbearable silence. Even fighting was better than this. He couldn’t imagine how things could get any worse—  
  
America sighed, low in his throat, and, feeling rather downcast, didn’t say any more. He was sick of making a fool of himself, especially with someone like England—to think, he’d almost kissed this asshole—and concentrated on driving instead. Except, that only worked for so long.  
  
Because he could feel England looking at him.   
  
Slowly, England turned back towards America and spoke, his voice softer now, almost gentle, so soft in fact that America almost missed it entirely:   
  
“Pull over.”   
  
“Huh?” America asked, eyes on the road and knuckles clenched white on the steering wheel. Something leapt into his throat.   
  
“Just pull over,” England said, licked his lips.  
  
America didn’t. “I’m driving, England.”  
  
England stared at him and added, “Please.”   
  
The request derailed all of America’s annoyance and anger, replacing it with confusion. But that only served to make him annoyed, because he was trying really hard to be annoyed at England—to tell himself that it didn’t upset him, just frustrated him—and such a request, asked kindly, was not something that America was used to hearing. But he did as he was asked, pulling over onto the side of the highway. The engine idled but when England didn’t move right away, America reached out and cut the power entirely with a flip of his wrist. They sat in silence for a long moment.   
  
America slumped a bit, hands in his lap and body tensed, wishing to relax. He glanced over at England through his hair, trying for stealth and nonchalance. He gripped feebly at his anger, but couldn’t deny now that he was more confused and concerned than anything else. England was slumped as well, looking down at the floor of the truck, not moving. America wondered, briefly, if perhaps he was carsick.   
  
“England?” America asked, confusion melting further away to concern, despite himself. “What is it?”   
  
England sucked in a sharp breath, as if weighing words, assessing the situation. But he did not move for a long moment, and he said nothing. He wasn’t looking at America. The annoyance was beginning to return, and America almost spoke.  
  
But then England moved, suddenly, unbuckling his seatbelt. His fingers fumbled, his head bowed so that America could not see his reaction. For a wild moment America thought that England was going to get out of the truck and just walk away—which would be entirely overdramatic, even by America’s standards—though then again, if he was going to throw up, it was better outside than inside the car. America had had far too much experience with drinking with Canada to know that it took months and months to get the smell of vomit out of a car, no matter how many air fresheners and Febreezed you used. But instead of flying from the car in a sickened frenzy, the seatbelt whipped back into its place behind England’s shoulder and the other man turned towards America. He looked at him for a grand total of two seconds before he pushed forward.   
  
And he hugged him.   
  
That, really, hadn’t been what America had expected at all. For a brief moment as England approached him, America wondered if England was going to punch him. This was far from a punch, but had all the impact of one, forcing the air from his lungs and leaving him frozen in shock. England moved stiffly, hesitated for half a moment, before tightening his hold around America’s shoulders. They were separated by their seats and England was turned awkwardly against America but that didn’t change the fact that it was a hug and England was hugging him, something that he hadn’t done (while sober) since the forties.   
  
America froze, and in that instant he knew. This was what he’d wanted.   
  
“Damn it, boy,” England breathed and it was enough to squeeze the words from America’s own chest. Instantly, he froze up again, forgetting his anger momentarily, too stunned to do much of anything else.   
  
He wanted to cling to England, to rock him, to hold him tight. But he remained frozen.  
  
“Well, shit,” America breathed, disbelieving.   
  
“I’m sorry,” England said, and it disarmed America so badly that he was certain at this point that England must have punched his lights out back in South Dakota and he was just having a fabulous dream that he was bound to wake up from soon. But the way England hugged him was almost painful, and he wasn’t awake yet.   
  
“Ah…” America said and found that he hadn’t anything else to say besides that small understatement.   
  
England wasn’t pulling back but his shoulders were tensed and America realized that he must be waiting. So he lifted his arms and wrapped them around England’s back, drawing him closer. England scrambled closer, his leg propping up and knee resting against America’s thigh as he leaned in closer to hug him.   
  
For a split second, America was only confused, taken aback by the strange clenching in his chest and by England’s sudden turn of mood. But soon thereafter he was taken, quite suddenly, by the ridiculous urge to cry. He wanted to be rocked, to be held gently by someone—by England, the back of his mind whispered. He wanted England to hold him. But he didn’t dare cry, because he wouldn’t be weak. But this… this had been what he’d wanted all along. He hugged him close, shaking slightly.   
  
“I’m sorry… I have been a bastard.” England’s words were soft, apologetic, guilty.   
  
“It’s part of your charm?” America asked, but England didn’t find it funny because he didn’t laugh. America sighed and tightened his hold on him. It felt nice, to hug England—he was scruffy and slender in his arms, but his back was strong and his hold was even stronger.   
  
“Still… the things you said were right,” England muttered against America’s shoulder.   
  
America tried very hard not to feel the way England’s breath breezed so easily and naturally across his neck and how it actually felt good—no, no it didn’t.   
  
America swallowed, and said, “Yeah, well, it’s not like I’ve been acting the best either.”   
  
“Even so,” England said, voice gentle wafts of air against his neck. “I apologize.”   
  
“Apology accepted,” America said, and felt giddy for some reason. He couldn’t help the way his smile returned to his face, the way his blue eyes lit up.   
  
“And,” England said after a pause, still making no move to pull away from America, and America found that he didn’t mind hugging England. “Ah…” He seemed, unexpectedly, to be overcome with some kind of modesty, or embarrassment. He trailed off, but still did not pull away. “I’d never thought to call it this before, but—you are a very dear friend to me, America. Even if I’m… perfectly horrid at… saying it. Or something. Hardly, don’t linger on it. It’s not that big of a deal, or anything, if you choose for something like this to be...”  
  
America inhaled sharply when England trailed off in his embarrassment, high and breathy and almost laughing, and shivered. That hadn’t been what he’d expected to hear and he hadn’t expected to react to it so fiercely. Wordlessly, America tightened his hold on England when he felt like the older nation might try to pull back. He melted into England, shifting so he could rest his forehead against England’s shoulder, holding him close.   
  
“Geez, you’re right about me not being able to make other friends—if a huge jerk like you admitting we’re friends makes me this happy, that’s kinda pathetic huh?” America asked and laughed because it was amusing in its depressing kind of way.   
  
But England didn’t pipe up to make fun of America, and stayed oddly silent. America flushed, embarrassed and pleased, before he tightened his hold once again around England and drew him closer still. He felt the block of ice that had lodged in his chest shift, jarring him from his reverie—cold before burning a hot in a single moment as everything had had happened sank in and he—he was _hugging_ England. When the hell did that ever happen?   
  
Cheeks stinging a pleasant pink and the heat crawling in his chest, he finally pulled away to look at England. England’s expression faltered for a moment when their eyes met, and he looked down and away, staring at the dashboard as if it was the most exciting thing on the planet. He looked so vulnerable that America almost pulled him into another hug but resisted in the end. He wondered if England could hear the loud sound his heart was making, twisting and turning lackadaisically in his chest, as if it was trying to squeeze its way out through his pores. It settled, instead, somewhere in his gut.   
  
He lifted a hand and touched England’s cheek, but that seemed far too intimate so it quickly fell down to clasping England’s shoulder—in a manly manner, America so did hope.   
  
“I don’t think it’s pathetic,” England said at last before America could speak.   
  
America gave him a lopsided, gleeful smile, eyes filled with warmth. “Yeah?”   
  
“Yes,” England said decisively and closed his eyes.   
  
“… I’m sorry, too,” America finally relented and the words felt so foreign—he never apologized, especially not to England who half the time was an ass and deserved everything he got (so he said).   
  
England’s eyes flickered open and looked at him.   
  
_I want to kiss him,_ America realized he was thinking and he almost recoiled again, but realized that doing something like that now would be so unbeneficial that they’d probably just end up fighting again. So, terrified, he forced himself to hold his ground and to _ignore_ that thought.   
  
He did not want to kiss England. There was no way that he wanted something like that. And England would flip out—maybe the reaction would be amusing. But the aftermath wouldn’t be.   
  
England lifted a hand and patted the hand on his shoulder and it sent tendrils of electric heat shooting through America’s veins. But he kept his hand there.   
  
“Apology accepted.” He smiled down at America and America looked up at him, the way England, knee propped up on the emergency break, seemed to take up the entire space of the truck’s cabin.   
  
“Great,” America said with a grin. He felt beside himself with giddiness, and felt ridiculous because of it.   
  
“And,” England said, voice dropping down to a near whisper, the tips of his ears burning pink and the rest of his face soon following. He licked his lips and said, “I… I do trust you.”   
  
America stared at him in alarm for a good, long moment, enough that England had to look away with a rather disdainful scoff, instantly regretting the admission. Genuinely surprised and caught off guard, America stared at England, flabbergasted.   
  
“Thanks, England,” America whispered, his voice surprisingly gentle.   
  
“I mean it,” England muttered. “Don’t sound so disbelieving.”   
  
“I’m just—I’m really happy,” America admitted and flushed with pride.   
  
“Even if you’re never fully honest about some things, you’re too expressive for your own good, boy.” England looked at him and for an alarmed moment America worried that England could read all of America’s thoughts, including the exceedingly awkward ones, but it seemed that England was just studying America’s expression while simultaneously trying to make his look less vulnerable. “You’re overeager and earnest with everything you do—it’s endearing.”  
  
“Endearing isn’t really what I’m going for,” America admitted.  
  
“It’s how it seems to me,” England said, voice light and face still bright red. America knew his face was red, too. “Heaven help me, I must be a masochist—but yes, I trust you. And believe you to be a friend.”   
  
“You’re horrible at showing it,” America said.  
  
England looked away, guilty again.   
  
“But… Me too—I like you, even though you’re a cranky old bastard,” America decided and hoped that England knew he meant a platonic kind of like—obviously not a ‘I want to be with you’ kind of like!   
  
England, of course, did not interpret it that way. Why would he?   
  
“I’ll try not to be quite so much of one from now on,” England muttered. “Understand it’s just because it’s easier to be agreeable, of course! Not because I’m concerned about your feelings.”  
  
For some reason, even that couldn’t make America’s smile fade. He laughed, instead. “And I’ll try not to ruffle your frumpy feathers so much.”   
  
England snorted, but he didn’t seem that insulted. The vulnerable look was gone now, and America was only half-happy to see it gone. It was hard to look at England when he looked like that—it reminded him too much of days long past, days he would often rub in England’s face and only just now realized probably hurt England, on some deep level—even if he’d never admit to it.   
  
“Great! So it’s settled then. I hate fighting.”   
  
“Hm,” England grunted, but it sounded like agreement.   
  
“Hey, I mean it—thanks, England,” America said, seriously. The hand on England’s shoulder shifted before finally pulling away. He missed touching him already— _why did he keep thinking like—?_  
  
England closed his eyes again. “You’re welcome, though you needn’t thank me. It takes two, for these sorts of things.”  
  
America was glad that England’s eyes were closed so he didn’t see the way that statement made his face heat up.  
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Shall we continue, then?” England asked.  
  
“Huh? Oh,” America said as he turned his attention away, though watched England resituate himself in the passenger seat, adjusting his seatbelt. America swallowed and turned the ignition until it hummed to life. “Yeah.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
They drove along interstate-90, moving up through Wyoming and into Montana. It was dark now, the sun setting in the distance and leaving England and America in silence and darkness. It was just as well. America, for once, didn’t feel like talking.   
  
That is, of course, until he glanced down at the dashboard and cursed, loudly.  
  
Startled out of the hours of silence, England turned towards him. “What is it?”   
  
“I’m almost out of gas,” America muttered. He frowned. “Do you remember the last time we passed a station?”  
  
England shook his head. “I haven’t been paying attention.”  
  
“Well damn,” America said with a frown. He squinted ahead into the darkness, beyond where even the headlights reached. “I wonder how long until we get somewhere. We’re nowhere near Butte yet, I don’t think.”  
  
“Will we make it?” England asked, leaning over to peer at the fuel gauge in the corner of the dashboard.   
  
America frowned. “I dunno. I think so.”  
  
Fifteen minutes later, the car died.   
  
“Fuck!” America shouted and hit his fist against the steering wheel. The truck’s horn blared and America slumped. He glanced at England, expecting anger and found only slight exasperation.   
  
“You hadn’t noticed it go down?”   
  
“I was too upset, earlier,” America muttered. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and sighed. “Damned mileage on this thing blows.”   
  
“We can call a tow company,” England suggested.   
  
“Yeah, if they’re even open this late.”   
  
America slumped more.  
  
England cracked a smile in the darkness, a smile that America only saw because the moon was bright in the sky. “It could certainly be worse.”  
  
“You and your morbid outlook on life,” America scoffed.   
  
England snorted. “… I suppose now would be a bad time to mention my phone is dead.”   
  
“Ffffffffffffffffff,” was America’s intelligent response. Then he dug around in his pocket to pull out his. “I have crappy service out here, but I should be able to get through to someone.”   
  
England sat in silence as America dialed the number for the operator—something he hadn’t done in _ages_ —before reaching over towards England and digging around the glove box for his AAA card. His arm brushed over England and England hunched down, searching, too, though he wasn’t quite sure for what he was searching. Their hands brushed momentarily in the glove box and America did a stupendous job of ignoring the fact that he noticed that.   
  
Search for the card unsuccessful, and the tow company going straight to voicemail left America snapping his phone shut and slipping it back into his pocket. “Looks like we’re stuck out here for tonight.”   
  
“It’s a bit cramped in here,” England admitted.  
  
“Yeah…” America screwed up his face. “S’fine, we can sleep sitting up, right? Did it before in trenches, we can do it now.”  
  
“Yes,” England agreed, voice soft. “I suppose so.”   
  
“Hey, I bet the stars out here are frickin’ awesome,” America said, perking up. He unlocked the driver’s door and scooted out. “Come on, England.”   
  
“I beg your pardon,” England asked, taken aback, but opening his door regardless. He walked out into the night with America, on the other side of the truck. He watched as America hoisted himself up into the bed of his pickup truck and sat down quite happily, leaning against their bags they’d left in the back. The cab of the truck was far too cramped. England rolled his eyes. “What are you doing, you fool?”   
  
“Relaxing,” America said with a grin. “We’re stuck here for a few hours—hope you can handle not being in a motel for one night.”  
  
“I’ll do my best to survive,” England drawled and then heard an animal call in the distance and very quickly scrambled up into the pickup with America. He sat down beside him, leaning against the metal separating the bed of the truck with the cab, using his duffle as an armrest of sorts.   
  
“I was right,” America said, sinking down so that he was lying on his back.   
  
England stared down at him, incredulous. “About what?”   
  
“The stars,” America said and pointed.   
  
England looked up, hesitantly, almost not wanting to take his eyes away from America, because the stars were reflecting in his eyes and off his glasses’ lenses. But America had been right. Sure enough, out in the wilderness and away from all the light pollution, the stars were bright and abundant, almost looking as they had back in the ancient times. England was too dignified to allow for his mouth to flop open, but the urge to go slack-jawed was certainly there. Instead, he silently shifted downwards, lying on his back beside America, hands folded together over his stomach.   
  
“… They’re lovely,” England said at last.   
  
“Yeah,” America agreed, his smile looking a bit dopey. “I love the stars. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to see them—in the city, it’s like they don’t exist at all. I just… I love them.”  
  
“I know you do,” England admitted. He closed his eyes a moment and found he missed looking up too much. He opened his eyes again, face gentle as he traced the familiar constellations and the constellations from times long past. “You always have, ever since you were a boy.”   
  
America was silent, thinking this over. “I’d spend hours begging you to teach me all the names and you’d always be a jerk and say I had to go to bed instead.”   
  
“I remember,” England told the stars. “You would never stop whining about it, you little brat.” His words lacked bite, and he still watched the stars. “I used to know quite a few names,” England confessed. “Back when we still had to navigate by them.”   
  
America shifted, pushing himself up onto one elbow so he could look down at England, studying his face. England stubbornly refused to look at him and kept his attention on the stars. “You’ve forgotten them?”   
  
“Not all of them,” England confessed, and he saw America flop back down onto his back out of the corner of his eye. “I remember the more popular ones, the ones I would use to navigate for centuries.”   
  
America named a few constellations that he liked, and England listened. When he glanced at America, he felt himself freeze upon spotting America’s expression, captivated and almost surreal in the near darkness, his face bathed in moonlight. The way the blue eyes seemed to reflect all the stars, a perfect, earnest reflection left England speechless. Something stabbed at the inside of his chest and he ignored it. He felt too alien, lying there beside America and yet feeling worlds apart, like they were torn apart. England didn’t understand the use, because he knew that America didn’t feel the same.   
  
“It’s amazing,” England breathed, gazing at America.   
  
“Isn’t it?” America, of course, remained oblivious, merely staring up at the stars, the objects of his fascination millions of years away.   
  
“I meant—that you can actually sound intelligent from time to time, who knew?” England said, feeling awkward at staring at him for so long, for being entirely too vulnerable, but then instantly regretted it when America’s smile faltered just slightly, and his eyes flickered away from the starlight. He never wanted that smile to disappear, not this smile. The blue eyes didn’t have the twinkling reflections in them anymore. England backpedalled, “Ah—I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant—”  
  
“Naw,” America drawled out, shrugging one shoulder before tucking an arm behind his head. He turned his attention back towards the stars. He didn’t say anything, but somehow England thought the smile was too dim now.   
  
“America…” England swallowed. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Man, I’m not used to you apologizing so much,” America said with a laugh. “It’s fine, England. I know you didn’t mean it like that—I’m tired of fighting.”   
  
England opened his mouth, almost snapped out something about how America’s nature as a country certainly presented an entirely different idea. But he stopped himself. He watched the boy, the young man—just watched him watch something he loved. It was an expression on his face that England had never seen and would, he thought, only ever see when he gazed at the stars. And it was enough to make him want to cry.   
  
“I don’t want to, either,” England admitted.   
  
“So let’s not, then,” America decided. “From now on, let’s just act like we actually are friends, yeah?” He changed the subject. “That one’s my favorite,” America said, pointing. “Always has been.”   
  
“Which one?” England asked.   
  
“There,” he said, gesturing.   
  
England moved, squeezing up to America’s side, trying to see exactly where America was pointing. They ended up pressed cheek to cheek, England’s eyes narrowed in determination and lining up his gaze with America’s arm. America forgot to breathe for a moment, suddenly to have England that close, pressed up against his side, their faces touching.   
  
“That one?” England asked, and raised his hand so that he was pointing beside America’s, their arms in unison with one another, a perfect reflection.   
  
America swallowed thickly, looking to make sure. “Yeah. That one.”  
  
England stared at it, surveyed America’s favorite star—and it somehow felt strangely intimate, to have England gazing at it so directly, scrutinizing it. America held very still, not pulling away from England and ignoring the way his heart pounded at having him so close.   
  
America turned his head slightly, eyes shifting away from the stars to England. England was still looking though he felt the movement and his eyes flickered. America’s breath returned to him in a rush, and it breezed over England’s face, his throat suddenly dry.  
  
“Hey, England?” America asked, because if he didn’t fill the silence with something he was afraid of what he would do, what he would begin to think, with his mouth so close to England’s face, so intimidate and close in the darkness.   
  
England’s eyes met his, and thankfully, unfortunately, he recoiled slightly. They were no longer pressed cheek to cheek, but they were close—so close.   
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m sorry, too,” America said.   
  
England looked rather alarmed by the sudden apology. He could count the number of times America had apologized to him on one hand and still have digits left over. He stared at America, eyes widened in his shock at the sudden choice of words and scraping his mind, trying to decide for what America was apologizing.  
  
“For what? You’ve already apologized once today—hearing it again is rather surprising.”   
  
“Yeah, I guess,” America said, scratching his cheek. “I mean—about not acknowledging you and then taking you for granted… I do do that. A lot more than I should.”   
  
“You shouldn’t do that at all,” England reminded.  
  
“Yeah. Which is why I’m glad that I have a friend like you who’s not afraid to tell me when I’m being a douche.”   
  
“Hm,” England grunted.   
  
“But more importantly,” America continued, now that he’d gotten past a second awkward apology. “I never really thanked you for anything, did I?”  
  
England blew out a hot breath of air and shook his head. “No. You haven’t.”   
  
“Well,” America said slowly, weighing his words though he knew what he was going to say. England suspected part of it could be intentional overdramatic tension. “Thanks.”   
  
“Hm,” England grunted again.   
  
“I mean it,” America said, turning to face England fully, propped up on his side and tucking his arm under his head to be more comfortable. England remained on his back, but he did turn his face towards America, hands still placed idly on his stomach. “Thanks for being my friend and helping me more than you ever have to even though I’m a jerk and never thank you. And thanks for doing this all with me.”   
  
England closed his eyes, and said lightly, “I hadn’t meant what I said, before. Not quite as harshly, at least.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“That your company is always obnoxious and unbearable,” England said. “I’m not so much of a masochist that I would allow myself to spend nearly a week with you simply because I didn’t want to hear you whine.”  
  
“Oh…” America said, voice soft and feeling his chest flush with warmth, his heartbeat spreading up. God, was he a preteen again? He hadn’t felt this way since—  
  
He most certainly had never felt this way. At all.  
  
England opened his eyes, watching America. America swallowed and watched as England reached up a hand from his stomach to touch America’s head, to brush back the golden locks away from his eyes and trailing his fingers along his skull idly, as if tucking the hair behind his ear, though it was too short for the gesture. England’s fingers gently combed through America’s hair, messing it up. Then his hand shifted downward, touched America’s face and then slid off completely.   
  
“I enjoy your company,” England admitted, and then seemed to remember himself, remembered his embarrassment and morality even under the cloak of darkness. He took his hand back and looked away, face bright red.  
  
America couldn’t move for a moment. He’d forgotten how to breathe and his skin still tingled from where England touched him.   
  
“I like spending time with you, too, England,” America said, then grinned. “See? I’m being honest!”   
  
England snorted out a laugh, thankful for the way the tension between them seemed to dissipate after such a statement. But America couldn’t forget the way his chest still heaved, the way it felt as if a line had crossed and he couldn’t cross back over again. He swallowed, trying to get used to this feeling and found that he couldn’t. Not entirely.   
  
The night smelled like cheap coffee and wasted gasoline. Or at least that’s what America’s sweatshirt smelled like. And England just smelled like a frumpy old man, as per usual—though probably not. America drew the line at describing what England _smelled_ like. He may be crossing lines tonight, but he refused to cross any more.  
  
Before anything else in the truck bed could veer further and get anymore Brokeback Mountain on him, America stretched and rolled back onto his back so he wasn’t facing England anymore.   
  
“Never knew ya liked me so much, England!” America crowed, bravado back with a swelling chest and a grinning face.   
  
England released a small sigh and didn’t flail as America had expected and hoped he would. Instead, he said, very quietly, “I never meant to give the impression that I hated you.”  
  
“I wouldn’t go that far,” America confessed.   
  
“Perhaps not,” England said, still frowning. “But it’s a sad existence when the person who is closest to you thinks the very opposite of what’s true.”  
  
America stilled, and he couldn’t deny the way his heart leapt up into his throat _again_. America was starting to suspect he had some kind of heart condition because it kept doing that. He tried to work the words over in his head, trying to pick apart whatever hidden meanings England may have.   
  
But it seemed that, for once, America was overanalyzing things.   
  
England sighed, “I’m not the best at the friendship thing.”  
  
America grinned, feeling hysteric. “Yeah, well, I could have told ya that!”   
  
England slanted a small glare at him, but it lacked the bite his anger had the last few days. America kept grinning because it kept him from saying something stupid or freaking out.   
  
“So hopefully we’ve gone through enough—hmm—roadblocks,” England said at last.   
  
America snorted out a soft laugh and then he couldn’t stop giggling stupidly a moment, before the giggles became full-fledged laughter and England stared at him incredulously a moment before America’s loud, booming, infectious laughter finally won him over and he gave a few soft chuckles to supplement America’s gut-busting.   
  
“You are not allowed to make anymore puns like that ever,” America decided, voice light from laughter and his face crinkled in pleasure.   
  
England rolled his eyes then rolled onto his side, tucking his arm under his head so he could face America. America hesitated, before he, too, rolled to face England. They were looking at one another face to face, though the image was slightly ruined by the fact that America kept biting his lip to keep from chortling out loud again.   
  
“I’ll do my best to survive,” England said.   
  
America’s eyes were shining and England couldn’t take his own eyes away from them.   
  
“Well,” America said, licking his lips because suddenly they felt too dry. “Gotta admit it was kinda awesome.”  
  
“I do have my moments, it would appear,” England drawled. “Though I really hadn’t expected quite that reaction.”   
  
“Haha, it’s probably just nerves,” America said and shrugged. He still felt slightly hysterical, slightly giddy and he couldn’t shake the image of scooting up to England again and wrapping his arms around him and just hugging him. He craved the contact.   
  
“Nerves,” England repeated, disbelieving.   
  
“Yeah, sure.”  
  
“You.”  
  
“Yeah, me.”   
  
“Hmmm,” England hummed, and closed his eyes. America’s mouth flopped open for a moment as he stared at England, shrouded in the darkness save for the starlight and moonlight. When the green eyes flickered open again, they were kinder than America remembered. “You don’t have to be nervous.”  
  
“I’m not _nervous_ ,” America stressed. “I just get all goofy sometimes.”  
  
“Yes, certainly only sometimes,” England said, the smirk in his voice completely evident.   
  
“Oh, shut up,” America commanded. “I put a lot of pride on the line, ya know, saying I’m sorry and thank you. Not like me.”  
  
“Hm. No, I suppose it isn’t.”   
  
“But I’ll remember from now on that you like it,” America promised.   
  
“Alright,” England said, eyes shut. “I’ll remember as well. No one ever choked when having to swallow his pride.” Then he paused, and added, “Thank you, America.”   
  
There was a long silence after that, where the two drifted between watching the stars and watching each other and under normal circumstances America would be freaking out over how lying together in the bed of his truck somehow seemed romantic, but with England it just seemed stupidly natural, almost unnaturally natural. Lying together with a hair’s breadth between them, where America could feel England’s warmth and body without actually touching it was comforting, knowing that all he had to do was reach out and they would be connected, and recognizing there was no obligation to do that.   
  
“Hey England?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Are we having a heart-to-heart?”   
  
There was a pause, while England thought this over. Then he laughed, soft and breathless. “Yes, I do believe we are.”   
  
America laughed too, sounding disbelieving for a moment. “It’s nice. We should do it more often.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
England woke up hours later and wasn’t sure when, exactly, he’d fallen asleep. He also wasn’t sure when, exactly, he’d somehow managed to squeeze his way on top of America, curled up against him with his arms wrapped around his bulk. What was possibly more disturbing still was the fact that America’s arms were wrapped around England in turn.   
  
He stayed very still after waking, worrying over waking America up and sending him into another fit like in the motel room after the horror movie. He wasn’t sure if he was quite ready to deal with another headache.   
  
So he dropped his head back down, resting it against America’s chest again, eyes closing a moment and listening to his heartbeat. His breathing was deep and even, in the deepest stage of sleep, it seemed. England could feel warm puffs of air breezing through his hair.   
  
England lifted a hand, drifted it over America’s chest before lifting to remove Texas from his nose, folding up the glasses and putting them into America’s bag for him. America didn’t respond, peacefully dreaming the morning away. England cracked a small smile.   
  
“I don’t get you sometimes, my dear lad,” England whispered and his breath drifted across America’s neck.   
  
Slowly, loathed to move, England touched America’s arms and pulled them away from him. Extracting himself from America’s warm body, he shivered as the early morning air touched his flushed skin. He set America’s arms down beside him. He looked strangely out of place, lying there without anything or anyone else. England shrugged out of his coat and draped it over his frame.   
  
Then he leaned over, digging his hand into America’s pocket and pulling out his phone. While the idiot was sleeping, he might as well be productive.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
America woke up with a crick in his neck and a growling stomach. He sat up, England’s jacket crumbling into his lap. He stared at it a moment, the world fuzzy, before he looked around for Texas.   
  
“Oh, you’re awake,” England said, walking around from the front of the truck, where he’d stood a fair distance away to use America’s phone. “Texas is in your bag.”  
  
America dug around for it and pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose. He yawned and felt his jaw crack. “How long have you been awake?”  
  
“Not quite an hour,” England said, and handed America’s phone back to him. “Here.”   
  
“Huh?” America asked, intelligently so.   
  
England cracked a smile. “There’s a gas station a few miles west, they’ll send someone over. Heaven knows I’ve had to go through so many people just to have them do that.”  
  
“Good they won’t have to tow, then,” America said, yawning again and massaging his neck to work out the sore muscles.   
  
“Truly,” England agreed.   
  
America held out England’s jacket to him and the other nation took it, eyes downcast. He made a great show of dusting it off and flapping it a bit to let it lose some of the wrinkles before slipping it back on, as if it had been a great sacrifice on his part to give it to America to use as a blanket.   
  
Watching England button himself up, America said, “It’s been a week.”  
  
“Hm?” England asked, eyes still down.   
  
“Since we started this,” America explained.  
  
England’s eyes finally did flicker up, catching America’s gaze and holding firm. “I know.”  
  
“And you don’t mind being here?”  
  
“Here?” England repeated. He glanced sourly at the truck. “I would have preferred to sleep in a bed last night, but…”  
  
“I meant in general,” America insisted but knew that England already knew this.   
  
England looked off to the side, down the road to see if anyone was coming. He shrugged one shoulder, but his blushing face was answer enough.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Later that morning found England and America on the road again, navigating through Montana on their way towards Idaho. The truck moved along swiftly now, filled with gasoline to fuel the way, and the ever watchful eye of the former empire to make sure they didn’t have another situation like that again.   
  
America was oddly silent during the ride, which England naturally noticed. He’d been quiet for the last few days and England liked to pretend he wasn’t concerned, but it was atypical to have the American be quite so silent for quite so long, without at least some kind of chortle to himself or a wide, inane grin.   
  
But England didn’t ask, so they drove in silence.   
  
“I never expected us to drive this far,” England finally said, glancing at America.   
  
America didn’t look away from where he was looking at the mountains, expression neutral but eyes bright, reflecting in the window. “Yeah.”  
  
“It’s not bad, I suppose,” England admitted and wanted to keep watching America’s face but had to turn back and actually pay attention to the road they were driving on. The truck bumped along, and even the radio was silent, nothing but fuzz when turned on.   
  
“No,” America said quietly and England couldn’t help but turn back to him, always attracted, always drawn back to him no matter how he tried to pull away. America was smiling. “If we’ve gone this far, might as well make it to the coast, right? It’ll only be a few more days, at our pace.”  
  
“Shall I just stay on this highway, then?”   
  
“Might as well, unless you want to go back to back roads,” America said with a shrug.   
  
“Hmm,” England hummed lightly. “We still would need to drive back, though.”  
  
“Well,” America chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment before saying, “This’ll take us to Seattle. But we can go down south to California and go back that way. If we can go down to L.A. we can take Route 66.”  
  
“… ‘Get your kicks’?” England asked.  
  
This time America’s smile was more of an inane grin, and it was only then that England fully realized how relieved he was to see it there. He nodded. “Yeah! I mean, maybe not all the way since it’ll end up taking us to Chicago again. And it’s really only ‘historical’ now so it might take a while… or something.”  
  
“In either case we’ll both have to find our way back to New York, so we can figure it out as we go along.”  
  
“Well,” America said, leaning back and looking almost smug. “Look at you, being all spontaneous like that.”  
  
“It seems you’ve been rubbing off on me.”   
  
“Next thing you know you’ll want to crash Mexico’s place and do more crazy shit.”  
  
“I’m so sure.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are these thoughts sudden and new? It’s probably just a passing fancy. Indulge yourself and it’ll be gone just like that, yes?”

Despite their reconciliation, the drive remained relatively quiet. America, deep in thought, didn’t even interrupt with his loud interruptions or chanting along to the pop songs cackling across the static in the radio. They drove across the highway, across state lines, and yet it somehow felt as if they were missing something important. England wasn’t sure if he wanted to know, if he wanted to hope. So he, too, didn’t say a word, neither engaging America nor engaging the world around him. He just drove, and disallowed himself to think.   
  
“Alright?” England ventured to ask.  
  
America squirmed. “I’m thinking.”  
  
“Ah,” England said, and America half-expected a quip about how he mustn’t hurt himself, but it didn’t come. England focused on the road.   
  
“… I dunno,” America finally decided, a small exhale and sigh.  
  
“Hm?” England asked.  
  
America rested his face against the window, eyes hooded and thoughtful. He fisted his hands in his tee-shirt, twisting and turning. He continued to squirm, and it was annoying but England bit his tongue to keep from snapping at him. He was obviously antsy about something.   
  
“Can I ask you a question?” America asked.  
  
“You just did, so clearly you’re able.”  
  
America squinted at him. “ _May_ I ask you a question? Sheesh, here I am trusting you and you have to insult my grammar.”  
  
“I take pride in it. And yes, you may.”  
  
“… If you can’t stop thinking about something, what do you do?”  
  
“What kind of question is that?” England asked, incredulous.   
  
“A really super important one. Englaaaaaaaaaaaaaand,” America whined.  
  
“Oh, stop that.”  
  
America wiggled in his seat, trying to get comfortable. He slumped, his knees pushed up against the glove box and his arms crossed over his chest. He stared up at England through his fringe, but when England glanced at him he quickly shifted his eyes away, focusing on the sky above them. He bit his lower lip, chewed on it in thought. England knew it was best to leave the boy to his devices and returned his undivided attention to the road. America, in his typical fashion, however, couldn’t let himself be ignored for long.  
  
“What if you really, really, really want to do something? But you don’t know if you should, but you can’t stop thinking about it and just want to?” America asked, slyly.   
  
England rolled his eyes briefly, pursing his lips in thought. Really, what did America expect? He couldn’t dispense logical advice if the boy was always so vague. He constantly did this and it was beyond obnoxious.  
  
England released a long, aggravated sigh. “Just do it.”  
  
“Really?” America asked, eyes widening slightly.  
  
“What do you expect me to say if you won’t give me the details, America? Honestly.” England licked his lips, and felt America’s eyes on him. He chose to ignore it. He continued, “Just do what it is you want to do. Perhaps then it’ll get out of your system and you won’t think about it so much. The novelty will be gone and you can move on.”  
  
“Move on…” America mused quietly to himself.   
  
“Yes,” England said, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Are these thoughts sudden and new? It’s probably just a passing fancy. Indulge yourself and it’ll be gone just like that, yes?”  
  
“… I guess,” America said, and his voice was low and soft. England wasn’t sure what to make of the sudden change in mood, but what could he do, if America wouldn’t give him specifics?   
  
He cleared his throat. “That’s what I would do.”  
  
America swiveled his face up to look at England again, and England glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Something lodged in England’s throat.   
  
“Yeah…” America murmured, to himself. He looked thoughtfully at his hands, curled his fingers. “I’ll do that.”   
  
They fell into silence and did not speak again.   
  
England drove in silence. They ended up stopping for the night in eastern Washington. They parked the car, got the room, brought up their luggage, and settled in for the night without saying more than ten words to one another. England eyed the bar from across the street through the window of the hotel, envious and craving a drink something awful. But he was too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to think about walking over there for the evening.   
  
America was still being strangely silent, staring up at the ceiling on his back. Resting on the bed with his arms tucked behind his head he let out a long sigh. “Nice to have something soft to lie on. My ass is tired from sitting on it all day.”  
  
“Indeed,” England murmured, not really listening.   
  
“Are you still staring at that bar? You lush.”   
  
“Shut your mouth,” England ordered, but didn’t deny that he really needed a drink. He couldn’t tell if the awkwardness in the air was one-sided or if the boy was even aware of what he was doing—or not doing, as the case may be. He pressed his forehead against the glass, relishing how cool the glass was against his feverish skin. They stayed in silence for a long moment, and it was nearly suffocating. England couldn’t understand the boy’s silence, the way he could say so much without saying a word. Or, England reasoned, this all could be in his head. He couldn’t know for sure.   
  
“You really want to drink or something?” America asked.   
  
“I don’t know,” England admitted, walking away from the window and sitting down on his bed. He sighed, slumping slightly, gripping his hands between his knees and sighing a second time shortly thereafter.   
  
“If I didn’t know better, I’d just think you wanted to avoid spending the night with me,” America said with a loud laugh. “Forget through drinking, right?”  
  
“I have to drink a lot to forget,” England muttered with a roll of his eyes.  
  
America rolled over onto his stomach, cushioning his chin in his hands and watching England for a long moment, his eyes strangely calculating. England glanced at him warily, one eyebrow arched.   
  
“I guess so,” America agreed. “Me too.”  
  
“Hm,” England grunted. “Probably not as much as me. You’re a light-weight in comparison.”   
  
America rolled over onto his back again and England watched him. “Everyone’s a light-weight in comparison to you. ‘Cept maybe Russia. Though you can’t tell when that weirdo’s drunk. At least with you, it’s impossible to drink anyone under the table.”  
  
“Tch,” England scoffed.   
  
“So…” America began. “Let’s drink. Let’s get so drunk we don’t remember anything in the morning.”  
  
“Why?” England asked.  
  
America shrugged. “Why not?”  
  
England narrowed his eyes, feeling as if America was keeping something to himself. He cleared his throat. “I don’t feel like going to a bar, really.”   
  
“There’s a mini-fridge filled with crap like that,” America said, pointing with his foot in the most undignified of manners. England glanced at him and the way his foot jiggled, his body arched up so that the smallest patch of flesh flashed as America’s shirt lifted up over his belly. England quickly turned his face away.  
  
“That’s just as expensive as going out for drinks, if not more so.”   
  
“It’ll be on me,” America said dismissively. He swiveled his head, to stare at England, his face strangely serious, as if he had come to some kind of revelation and was indulging himself in the knowledge. “Go wild. Shine on, you crazy diamond. Or whatever. It’ll be easier just to have you in here because then we won’t have to haul each other’s asses back to the room.”  
  
England hesitated, unsure if he should give in and drink. So far, it seemed that only strange things happened when he did it—and after years of existence, really, he should expect only horrible things to happen when he drank. Especially if he drank with America.   
  
“Come on,” America prompted. “Free booze. Who can say no?”  
  
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” England teased and America laughed a little too loudly.   
  
“Go on,” America urged.   
  
England rolled his eyes but needed no further invitation, moving over towards the fridge and pulling out the alcohol of choice. He glanced at America, who still was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling now, the oddly serious expression of his gone now.   
  
“And what of you?”  
  
“Give me some whiskey if there is any,” America said after a pause to think it over. His voice was hushed. He’d made a decision.   
  
England poured it for him.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“An’ another thing,” America hiccupped, slinging an arm around England’s shoulders. “How’m I suppose t’know about—about stuff?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re even talking about,” England mumbled into his glass, because he honestly stopped listening to America’s drunken storytelling about half an hour ago. This didn’t seem to deter the younger nation at all, however. In fact, he seemed content to down quite a few drinks and top England’s off whenever he thought it was getting too low, with many urges to keep drinking.   
  
England was not nearly as drunk as he would have liked to be, but it seemed that once started, America was perfectly content in taking up the reign of the Best Drunk. He danced around the room and at one point even tried to put his shirt on as socks, until England managed to restrain him long enough to pour him another drink.  
  
“Well, at least you’re peppy now,” England said with a roll of his eyes.  
  
“Y—huh?” America asked, intelligently so.  
  
“Before, today and the last few days,” England explained, the drink loosening his tongue where he would often deny or say nothing. “You’ve been acting strange—a bi’ morose, almost. Quiet. S’not like you.”   
  
“Heeee snot,” America giggled.  
  
“Shush,” England commanded.   
  
“I just been thinkin’,” America slurred with a laugh.  
  
“Hm,” England grunted and watched as America poured a liberal amount of drink into England’s cup, filling it to the brim again.   
  
“How drunk are you?” America asked and that vaguely serious expression came back to his eyes, darkening the blue and setting his face in determination England often saw when America buckled down to deal with a problem within his government or on the international stage.   
  
“What a strange question,” England marveled and blinked in quiet fascination as sloppy fingers wrapped around England’s wrist and America guided the drink to his lips. Once content that England was drinking, America downed his drink.   
  
“Well?” slurred the American.  
  
“… ‘M ratha’,” England decided. But not as drunk as he normally would get. His confusion was a bit of a buzz-kill, and he kept staring up at America and thinking obscene things to do to him. He really needed to learn how to restrain himself.   
  
“Good,” America decided.   
  
“Are you going to tell me what you’re thinking about?” England asked with a sigh, clear to him now that America was trying to get him drunk. For what purpose, he did not know. For every drink England packed away, America threw back his own. So they were clearly getting drunk together, though England had a higher tolerance for the drinks, especially the weak piss drinks America liked to nurse.   
  
“Ya know. Thinkin’. ‘Bout things.”   
  
“About what we’ve already talked about, then,” England said and felt relieved for a moment until he wondered why America was still thinking over it if they’d already discussed it.   
  
But America was shaking his head. “Not about that.”   
  
“About what, then?” England insisted, where he would normally let things slide or where he would normally just ignore everything. But the drink tasted so good, and it was beyond the point where the hard liquor burned his throat. It flowed down nice and smooth, without a taste. He suppressed a hiccup, not wanting to send America into a fit of laughter and thus avoiding the question.  
  
“You,” America said with something that was almost a wistful sigh and it made England pause. But America wasn’t done. He puckered up his lips for a moment, like a fish, before his lower lip drooped a little into a pout. “Kissin’ you.”  
  
“I—what?”   
  
That really hadn’t been what England had expected and he wondered if he really was too drunk. Maybe he should stop, or maybe America should stop, if he really was saying foolish things.  
  
“Last time we drank,” America slurred, voice soft and lilted. “I almost kissed you when you passed out. I’ve been thinkin’ bout it ever since.”   
  
“… Oh.” Somehow, that soft exhale was too much of an understatement. Somewhere inside of him, everything was exploding at once, though he wondered how he managed to keep that from showing on his face. Somewhere else entirely, he knew something was wrong. America stared at him with slightly glazed eyes, looking down at him over the rims of his glasses.  
  
“Yeah,” America breathed.  
  
They stared at one another. England’s heart pounded, his face flushed. His hand was shaking. America’s fingers curled around his wrist, and stayed there. England shifted his gaze to stare at it and watched as America brought the drink to England’s lips.  
  
Under normal circumstances, England would resist. But he suddenly found that he very much wanted his vision to blur. He downed the rest of the drink and when he righted himself, America was smiling.   
  
“I was telling myself all the reasons why I can’t,” America continued, and actually scooted closer to England. England swallowed, and knew that the glass in his hand was shaking, no matter how much he wished it would stop.   
  
“And are you going to listen?” England asked and wondered why he asked it. His brain was too muddy—what had America done the last few days? Had there been any indication about his inner thoughts like this? What was he going to do now?   
  
America licked his lips, turning his head to stare at England with utmost concentration and seriousness. Under normal circumstances, perhaps England would have been amused by the expression, but right now all he could feel was the cold wash of fear and uncertainty.   
  
“You won’t make fun of me for being gay, will you?” America asked, voice quiet. He dumped the rest of his drink into England’s glass.   
  
England gave him a slightly strained look. “My boy, I wouldn’t dream of it.”   
  
“Cause I don’t want people to think I’m gay cause of this or anythin’,” America slurred. “Not that I think it’s bad—ya know? I just… I get nervous when I think about it at all with anybody.”   
  
England’s expression gentled somewhat. “You? Nervous?”   
  
America puffed up a little. “I’m not afraid, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”   
  
England finished his drink and let out a short, crisp sigh. “I would never suggest such a thing.”   
  
“So… Can I?”  
  
“What?” England asked.  
  
“Kiss you.”  
  
England jumped a little, but managed to hide it well. He stood up, back stiff, and moved over to pour himself another drink. He had far too much consciousness for this to truly be happening—perhaps he was dreaming. He threw back the glass to his mouth before the liquor had a chance to settle. His throat still didn’t burn.  
  
Then he turned back towards America. “I thought you were trying to convince yourself you didn’t want to?”  
  
“I’m drunk.”  
  
“Isn’t it you who always says I shouldn’t use that as an excuse?”  
  
America scratched his head and adjusted his glasses, looking surprisingly self-conscious, given that it was America of all people.  
  
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, slowly, as if unused to using the words. They stared at one another a moment, America’s eyes fuzzy but staring straight at England, and wanting to stare at him. England felt as if he was pinned under that gaze, unable to look away. “I tried to. But that’s just it. I didn’t try too hard, I guess. I kept thinking about it. I kept wanting to think about it. Even now, I’ll keep thinking about it.”   
  
“I wonder if I should find it depressing that you can admit many things when sober, except for this. Weren’t heroes able to say whatever was on their mind?”  
  
He flopped down onto his bed, lying on his back and up at the ceiling until the light above was too bright and he had to close his eyes. He felt America shift, drift closer to him. He could feel him approach, could smell the liquor on his breath and the sound of his breathing—could America hear his heart beating as loudly as it felt?  
  
He kept his eyes closed stubbornly, and America made no move to close the distance, despite his claim that he wanted to. When he finally did open his eyes again, after just lying there and trying to ignore how close America was, their eyes found one another—hazy blue. England kept his face painfully straight, neutral, trying to betray nothing. And then America smiled at him, and he felt his heart break.   
  
“England,” America murmured, and his voice almost sounded gentle. The stench of alcohol wafted past England’s nose. “England…”  
  
“You have been thinking about this a lot,” England said softly. “Do you really want it?”  
  
“I do,” America breathed, eyes wide.   
  
England licked his lips. “Prove to me that you do.”  
  
“How?” America asked.  
  
“Be honest with me,” England whispered—and it sounded like he was begging and he hated that. Somehow, deep down, he knew why they were both drinking right now—why America wanted them to be drinking.   
  
“Honest?”  
  
“I don’t understand you,” England murmured, closing his eyes again and knitting his brow. “I’ve tried… I thought I could read you perfectly, but I don’t understand you at all.”  
  
America was quiet again, something that despite the frequency of his silence the last few days still struck England was incredibly odd. He reached out a hand and touched England’s face. England’s eyes flickered open, looking at him.  
  
America bit his lip. “How to say this…”  
  
England frowned.  
  
America was the one to close his eyes this time. “Even if you don’t think so—you’re one of the people who understands me the best.”  
  
England’s breath caught.  
  
But America wasn’t done. “I do like your company. I like the idea of—of kissing you. Even if I can only say it when I’m drunk and—I don’t know what you feel about any of that. I don’t understand, either.” America swallowed. “Why I feel this way, and why now…”  
  
“Ah…” England breathed.  
  
America shook his head, eyes still shut as he thought, reading the words that flitted across his darkened vision.   
  
“I jus’ think ‘f all the things people say ‘n I know that itsa buncha bullshit or whateva’,” America whispered, breath ghosting over England’s face before the boy seemed to remember himself and pulled back, straightening his spine. England stayed on his back, looking up at him. “But I still… want it.”  
  
England and America’s eyes locked.  
  
England hesitated. He knew what was happening, knew why it was happening. He knew it, and yet he didn’t want to stop it. He closed his eyes, inhaled sharply. Maybe he was drunk enough to forget, in the morning. Maybe for tonight, he could indulge himself, and then—  
  
And then move on.   
  
“… Come here,” England whispered quietly, and held up his arms.   
  
America came to him, sliding into his embrace so that they were leaning chest to chest, America over England. The room was suffocating with heat, with the smell of liquor. England inhaled a sharp breath, heard it rattle in his lungs.   
  
And then he leaned up, just enough to ghost his lips over America’s. He felt America stiffen up, his mouth parting in the quietest of inhales. Chest to chest, England could feel America’s heartbeat racing, as if in time to his own. He brushed his lips softly over America’s, hardly a touch, barely there, but just close enough for them both to know that it wasn’t nearly close enough. Just sad enough for them to both know that this somehow didn’t count, that the humming alcohol in their systems was a buffer that would eventually scrape away.   
  
England pulled back, leaned back on the bed. They were both drunk. He knew this, and the fact that he was conscious enough to recognize this meant that in the morning he couldn’t use the alcohol as an excuse when the bubble burst—and England, no matter how soft America’s lips were, how gentle his eyes were, knew that the bubble would burst. He had always been a pessimist at heart.   
  
And yet, he was also a romantic. And yet it was not enough for him not to murmur, “Then kiss me.”  
  
America’s mind buzzed, and he barely comprehended the way England grasped his shoulders and pulled him down, the way their bodies saddled up next to one another, America climbing on top of England, caging him in as his arms wrapped around the back of his neck and kept him there. America kissed England.   
  
It was enough to shatter the tension in the room, just as it seemed to mount to its peak, waiting there to snap and break them. But America’s lips on England’s was present and real, moving tentatively at first, exploring and reconciling the dilemma that still raged in the corners of America’s mind, seized his heart not in fear but in embarrassment and uncertainty. England felt the air of his lungs escape him, rush out and leave him empty and craving more of America’s touch. And then England arched up, consuming America, deepening the kiss until there was nothing left between them, not even separate air.   
  
They kissed, open-mouthed and breathless. America remained frozen for half a moment, before the tentativeness seemed to be kicked out the door by England’s bold move and America returned the enthusiasm with his own boisterous attitude towards all things—diving in headfirst and not bothering to check where he would land. England’s hands were on his neck, his back, into his hair, fingers curling around the golden strands and tugging him ever closer.   
  
The kiss was soft, their mouths parted against one another. England pressed closer, pressed his tongue along the flat of America’s lower lip before tilting his head and sucking America’s lip. America opened his mouth wider, sucked England’s tongue into his mouth and suddenly the kiss was more than a mingling of air, but a complete domination. England’s tongue stroked the side of America’s mouth, exploring and moving leisurely, arching up against America.   
  
England made a soft sound against his mouth and America responded, hands stroking along England’s side, moving haphazardly, unaccustomed to being with someone after so many years. And never with someone like England, never England—but in his heart he knew he’d wanted to, even if he couldn’t admit it.   
  
England breathed out and pulled away, eyes opening but remaining at half-mast. America’s eyes were still shut when he looked up at the younger nation and his spectacles were knocked crooked by their joint eagerness.  
  
America’s eyes flickered open and he licked his lips absently. “Oh.”  
  
“Oh?” England repeated.  
  
“Yeah,” America said, looking dazed and drunk and happy. He smiled. “It’s what I wanted.”   
  
“Good,” England whispered, and was too drunk off alcohol and off America’s kisses to see anything beyond the here and now. His hand lifted and touched the boy’s cheek, fingers brushing along his jaw and his cheekbone, into the golden strands of his hair. He offered him a shaky smile, so unaccustomed to smiling.   
  
They kissed for a long time, exploring and understanding one another. England told himself the buzz in his veins was from alcohol. They kissed for a very long time. A very long time, truly.   
  
After the long minutes of kissing, feeling his body panting and arching in need, England’s other hand slipped beneath America’s t-shirt. He ran the blunt nails of his fingers along the skin of his sides, over his chest, following the curved lines of his ribs and the dips of his muscles and lines of his skin.   
  
“England…” America whispered and it made England freeze—to hear his name with that voice, with America’s face flushed and open and smiling at him, not his stupid, inane smile, but something softer and lovelier and—it was too much for England to bear, almost.   
  
He closed his eyes, sucking in a sharp breath before moving his hand again, up over America’s stomach, over his chest, resting above his heart. But he couldn’t stay there long, he just couldn’t. He withdrew his hand, took it out from under the younger nation’s shirt.   
  
America shifted, settling more firmly in his position, sitting back and pressing down into England’s lap, hands planted on either side of him. He rolled his hips, just slightly, and it was enough to have England’s breath fall away again. America froze, as if he hadn’t expected for that to happen—and England knew the boy had no idea what he was doing in that department, not with another man.   
  
“Nn…” England sighed, eyes fluttering before falling shut again. He bit back the urge to roll his hips up to meet America.   
  
America misinterpreted the rigidity of England’s position, the way he bit his lip. He watched England, expression hazy from drink. He licked his lips, and smirked in a way that was meant to be bravado and only served to demonstrate how nervous he was. “Not too fat for you, right?”  
  
“My dear,” England said, shockingly gentle, opening his eyes and swiveling his head up, “I’ve already said long before tonight. You are perfectly lovely.”  
  
He let the words sink in, waited until understanding dawned in America’s face.  
  
And then his smile widened, almost hysterical, almost giddy. “Understand?”  
  
“England…”  
  
“Good,” England muttered. “Now come _here._ ”   
  
He pulled America down, gripping his chin and guiding him down so that they were pressed flushed against each other. England leaned in and kissed him soundly on the mouth. England gave in, let himself drown. He would forget in the morning. America would forget in the morning. They would move on.   
  
They returned to the activities from before, each one trying to dominate the other’s mouth, tongues and teeth and soft, soft sighs. England arched up, rolling his hips in a silent invitation as his hands stroked America’s cheeks and neck and shoulders. America hissed against his mouth, and England felt the erection plump up between them.   
  
“Wait—” England breathed, pulling away, panting.   
  
“ _Ah—!_ ” America cried out, frustrated. He rolled his hips. “Don’t make me wait now, England. Ah—England…”   
  
England clenched his eyes shut, unable to handle the sound of his name, the sound of his cries like that. He obediently rolled his hips, pressing up against America and listening to the nation above him suck in a sharp breath and moan.   
  
“Relax, lovely,” England soothed, plucking America’s glasses from his nose and stretching to place them carefully on the bedside table. He lifted his hands then, petting the hair from his face and smiling. “I’ll take care of you.”   
  
“Nngh…” America hissed when England punctuated this promise by rolling his hips up again, rubbing against the growing heat in America’s jeans. He knew he was responding in kind and he sadly had to drop his hands away so he could push himself up with his elbows, arching to meet America. America moaned, wrapping one leg around the small of England’s back, pressing him closer so that they were flushed together.   
  
America’s hands pulled at the knot of England’s tie, working it loose and leaning in to kiss along his neck, sucking and biting and scraping, needy fingers fumbling over the buttons of his button-down. England barely choked back his moan as he hit right up against America and practically humped up against him, but even he could manage to restrain himself long enough to rip the t-shirt off America.   
  
“Have you ever—”  
  
“Wha—yeah—”  
  
“With another ma—”  
  
“Let’s not talk about it,” America urged, kissing along England’s neck. England closed his eyes a moment, allowed America to indulge himself in such a way and by no means taking displeasure from it. America pulled way, to ask, “What about you?”   
  
For some reason, England found this terribly amusing. He laughed, a bit helplessly. “Oh, my sweet lad. Dear, sweet lad.”   
  
America whispered out a breath of unintelligible words, arching against England’ s hand as the other nation slipped them down his bare chest and over the front of his pants, cupping his hardened cock through the denim. He cried out and bit his lower lip.   
  
“Christ,” England moaned.  
  
America panted, “Let’s… let’s not talk about him.”   
  
England’s hands slipped into America’s jeans and ceased all coherent thought after that. He cried out as one hand sloppily worked at the belt and the other made quick work of shoving that and his underwear away. America swiveled his hips as his cock was finally free and England’s fingers only just barely breezed over the head—but it was enough for America to suck in a rattling breath, loud in the quiet of the bedroom. America arched his back, leaned back away from England a moment. England watched as America, hesitant to unwrap his legs from around England, leaned back onto his back, stretching one arm over his head towards the bedside table. He stretched as far as he could, enough that his stomach decompressed and England could actually see the ribs under his skin and the taut lines of his body as he pulled himself as far as he could.  
  
England palmed America’s cock and pulled the flat of his hand over the length of it. The rattling gasp was back, and America faltered a moment before he managed to flick the light out—so that had been his aim.   
  
England allowed him the protection of the darkness.   
  
He grasped America under his knees and lifted, drawing the legs away from around him and then crept up to press America over onto his back. America moaned quietly as England’s hands made quick work of pulling his clothing off him, leaving him naked and exposed, though it was hard to see all the details in the dark now. The open curtains filtered in some of the light from the outside, distant streetlamps and building lights. Lights of all colors bathed their bed in a myriad of colors, of blues and yellows and reds.  
  
Blue eyes flickered up to him and England leaned down, pressing a kiss to America’s knee, one hand curling up over the powerful muscles of America’s thigh and resting on his hip.   
  
The hand on his knee slid down, grasping his ankle and tilting his leg up, and leaning in to kiss along his inner thigh. America panted, face bright red though unnoticeable in the darkness. He let England move, unsure how to handle this situation—convincing himself he was too drunk to do anything.   
  
With a small oof, America thudded against the bed as England’s lips laved along the warm skin of his thighs, kissing and stroking with gentle fingertips. He trailed his tongue along his skin but avoided where America desperately wanted him to touch. His fingers snarled into England’s hair, trying to guide him but continually distracted when a hand stroked along the quivering abdominal muscles as he half-arched off the bed. His other hand curled into the sheets and tugged, yanking them and refusing to let his grip loosen. He moaned and his leg shuddered in England’s grasp as England breathed too close to America’s cock.   
  
“Fuuuuck,” he moaned, low and needy.   
  
“All in good time,” England murmured. “Though—we haven’t the proper—for—”  
  
“Hrmya?” America asked and England had no idea what that word might have been originally.   
  
“What’s that?” England murmured, kissing against his warm skin, pressing his face against the warm space, over the hardness of America’s hipbone, hand slipping over the trembling muscles of his leg. One leg hooked around England, trying to draw him closer and pay attention to America’s cock, the one thing England had been neglecting since having America on his back.  
  
“England…” he moaned.  
  
“If you’ve never done it like this before, it’d probably be best just to…” he trailed off and finally his hand passed over America’s cock.  
  
America clenched his eyes shut. “I don’t care—just not—”  
  
He cut himself off but England looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed together. His hold tightened on America’s leg, hoisting it up a bit more and placing a sloppy kiss at the junction between leg and hip before pillowing his lips to his inner thigh.   
  
“Not what?”  
  
“Missionary—s’boring.”  
  
England looked up, momentarily shocked before his face dissolved into a small smirk. “I knew under your puritanical nonsense you had a bit of daring in you.”   
  
“Hrrrm,” America moaned and tried to swivel his hips to invite England’s mouth to much more needy areas of his body.   
  
England’s hands roved over America’s willing, shuddering body. He stroked his fingertips, the blunt of his nails, the pad of his thumb, along the dips and planes of America’s chest and stomach, thumbing along the trail of hair from belly button downward. Smiling, cheekily almost, he kissed along his belly, moving upwards and away from what America desperately wanted. America’s cry was a mixture of pleasure and frustration.   
  
“Don’t _tease_ me, damn it,” America moaned.  
  
“Relax, luv,” England soothed, greedy hands mapping every curve of America’s willing body.  
  
America eagerly moved his hands to touch England, grasping and grazing and scraping, gripping at England’s shoulders and arms and hips, unsure where to rest and unsure where he should explore next. America did as he was commanded, however, steadily relaxing under England’s ministrations.   
  
“Why won’t you just—”  
  
“Condoms?” England breathed against him. “Lube?”  
  
America groaned. “Why would I have stuff like that when I’m with _you_ —”  
  
“Exactly,” England murmured, kissing down America’s body again. His hand moved down and grasped America, stroking him and watching him cry out. “But that sort of position isn’t necessary every time—and you probably wouldn’t be comfortable with something like that.”  
  
He stroked up and down, setting a leisurely pace that still drove America mad.  
  
“I’ll make it worth your while,” England promised.   
  
“You already have,” America moaned, voice breathless and hoarse and husky.  
  
England stroked the hair from his face, his forehead already slightly damp. He smiled at America, pumping his shaft up and down idly.   
  
“Good.”  
  
England removed his hand, left one last kiss along his inner thigh before dropping his leg down. He moved up so that they were pressed together again, chest to chest. England’s hand drifted, unhooking his own belt and shimmying out of the remains of his clothing. England laid all his weight down and America groaned, hands going for England’s hips as England rocked forward against him. America gasped loudly, loud enough in England’s ear to make him almost cringe. But he didn’t, and he met America’s impatient responding buck with a small smile.   
  
“Fuck…” America gasped as England pressed his mouth against America’s neck, groaning and almost _whimpering_ as America bucked up eagerly against England. England’s hand smoothed down America’s chest, grasping both their cocks in his hand and pressing them together as his palm shifted up and along America’s erection. America cried, “Fuck!” again and kept doing so, “Oh—myfuckinggod.”   
  
“It must have been a while for you,” England murmured against his neck.   
  
“Feels good,” America mumbled and England’s kisses followed the growing blush up America’s neck over his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. England pressed their foreheads together, smiling at him as America stared back, expression dazed and pleased.   
  
“That’s good, my darling,” England murmured, kissing him very briefly, only the smallest of pecks that America tried to deepen before England pulled away. He smiled, stroking America and kissing the corner of his mouth.   
  
“… S’been a few years,” America admitted in a quiet voice as England thumbed along the head of America’s cock. America bit back a cry and simply bucked his hips up against England. “I guess.”  
  
England returned to his earlier task of licking and kissing along America’s jaw and neck, tasting and exploring and conquering—all the while, America making his small noises that drove England wild, small _ah_ s and _oh_ s and the most overwhelmingly of them all, the soft cries of _Englaaaand_ as America panted below him.   
  
America’s big hand slipped from his hip, moved to cup the curve of his backside before fingers pressed down along the lines of his thighs. “I want you to feel good, too.”  
  
“I do,” England promised, kissing at the hollow of his throat. He looked up at America to see he was staring back at him, eyes wide. He kissed his collarbone, eyes hooded. “You make me feel good, my dear.”  
  
America closed his eyes, groaning, but he didn’t stop. The large hand on England’s thigh—it seemed so large, oh so large for someone who had used to be so small—shifted and pressed until it was between them, hesitant fingers wrapping around England to join England’s hand, the flat of his palm cupping along England’s length.   
  
England groaned, quietly. “Ah… America…”   
  
America grinned, happy to have gotten a response like that, to hear his name called out, to be wanted, in a voice dark and husky with lust and desire. Their eyes met but England shifted his attentions away, rolling his hips against America and pumping his head up and down, thumb brushing over the head of America’s weeping cock and listening to his small sounds and groans and cries—all quiet and wonderful enough to make England explode.  
  
But those eyes were too inquisitive, the touches, while hesitant in practice, were confident in location and activity. America’s cries were clear and crisp and it was too perfect—it was too perfect, it was not okay. It couldn’t be okay. It couldn’t be okay, because England knew he wasn’t drunk enough, and with a small thread of fear, he knew America wasn’t drunk enough either.  
  
“… How drunk are you, really?” he whispered against America’s flushed skin. The alcohol wasn’t enough for him, either.   
  
They both stared at each other. Something flickered in America’s eyes before he closed them, groaning low in his throat and practically _begging_ England.   
  
America seemed to remember himself, remember enough that the slur in his words came back. England accepted this, not pressing it, diving behind the guise of drink in the aftermath of their activities, the room reeking of liquor and sex. But more so the latter.   
  
America came with a cry, his back arching and his legs shuddering to press around England again, wrapping and holding him close as his body spasmed and he spilled his seed all over his stomach. England watched the way his expression shifted and changed with the gentlest of smiles, lifting his free hand to stroke his cheek and hair, brushing back the sweat-drenched hair.  
  
“Good lad,” he whispered, breathing harsh in his throat. “Such a good lad, America.”  
  
America groaned, relaxing immediately afterward, his eyes on the ceiling before remembering themselves and rolling up to meet England, hovering over him. He gave him a loopy smile.   
  
England returned the smile and pressed his lips against America’s chest, kissing up the mess he’d left behind, tongue and teeth pressing over the golden flushed skin, and taking special care with his softening cock to clean him.   
  
“Wha—‘bout you?” America slurred out, drunk off alcohol and sex.   
  
England smiled. His hand lifted to take care of himself, but America seemed to have recovered movement in his jelly limbs because he sat up, pushing England back against the headboard, hands pushing down his chest and spreading his legs. He crawled closer, face flushed.   
  
“America…” England breathed as America kissed his neck, hand reaching for England’s neglected cock and jerking him off for him.   
  
“I’ll help you with that, England,” America breathed against his neck and England had to clench his eyes shut and groan, low in his throat, America kissing along the arch of his skin to follow the sound, sucking on his pulse, biting along the column of his neck, sucking on his adam’s apple, and mouthing against the hollow of his neck. All the while, his hand laid claim to England, and England allowed himself to fall into his embrace.   
  
“I wonder which one you will choose,” England whispered, “in the morning.”  
  
“Wha—?” America asked, slurred against his chest as he followed the lines of England’s body downwards, hand quickening its pace.   
  
“Will you wake me up for an awkward talk?” England asked, hands slipping into America’s hair and holding firm. Kissing along his belly now, America looked up at him, blue eyes wide and hair disheveled and mushed, “Or will you slip out like I’m just a tramp you’re done with?”  
  
America didn’t answer right away because with one last jerk, England reached his climax and cried out, arching and America ducked down to catch it in his mouth, encircling the head of England’s cock with his mouth and milking him with his hands. His movements were clumsy, and England realized dimly that America must not have ever done this before, not like this, but he exuded some kind of confidence that seemed to deflate the longer he thought over England’s question.  
  
Once done, he pulled away from England with one final lick, and brushed his thumb over his mouth to collect anything that had escaped his mouth. And then he collected England into his arms, holding him close and flopping onto the bed. England, from something he amounted to masochism, allowed him to do this, and allowed himself to breathe in the scent of America after sex.  
  
“Neither,” America slurred, finally, after a long pause. He grinned, loopy. “Imma gonna hold you until you wake up.”  
  
“No,” England breathed, and looked too sad. He lifted a hand and cupped America’s cheek. “… You won’t.”   
  
America’s eyes flickered again and England kissed him. He closed his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath, they're both left to pick up the pieces. But neither know how to put it back together correctly.

America didn’t remember what he dreamed about, only that he did dream. He woke up, and for a brief second, felt completely at peace and happy, until the memories from the night before returned to him full-force, in excruciating detail, undaunted by the fuzz of alcohol or forgetfulness. He froze up, forgetting momentarily the gentle feel of the sun pressing on his cheeks, the tender weight of blankets covering him, the way his body sank so peacefully into the mattress. He stiffened up, his eyes widening in horror and his stomach churning into a black hole of dread. He wasn’t hung-over. He remembered everything.   
  
When he woke up fully, he blinked his eyes several times, and stared into the light filtering through the window. Perhaps if he stared at the bright light long enough he would get a splitting headache and he could convince himself he was hung-over. The light from the window drifted across the room, illuminating floating dust motes and settling in a small, warm patch over the sheets covering his and England’s body. He was holding England. The other nation slept peacefully, face cushioned against his pillow, face completely smoothed and relaxed in his sleep, his hold on America loose. It felt so natural to have his arms around England, to have England’s arms wrapped around him. His face rested against his own pillow, snuggled into England’s neck. He blinked his eyes and almost retreated.   
  
His sleep-addled brain’s first thought was that the sun was _thank god he’s still sleeping._   
  
England slept relatively peacefully, relaxed in America’s arms and his deep, even breathing a steady rustle in his ear. His heart thumped repeatedly and America could hear it, could see the smallest jolt of a pulse in his barely stirring chest.   
  
America’s stomach twisted as England pressed closer in his sleep, keeping to the warmth and letting out a small sigh. America’s heart shivered and dropped down into the dread bubbling in his gut. It twisted and churned and made him almost cringe.   
  
He hesitated for a half a second before pulling away. He studied England’s face, let his eyes smooth along his jaw, over the slack pucker of his lips, the way his hair covered his forehead just so. He had to look away when he felt his heart clench, when he felt the pit of shame widen and swallow him whole.   
  
It was enough.  
  
He retreated from England, tried to pull away as soundlessly as possible without disturbing England’s sleep. He did not want him to wake up. Just keep sleeping, just…  
  
England didn’t move. America pulled the arms out from around him and retreated, nearly tripping out of the bed, sheets wrapped around him. He caught himself before he disturbed the part of the sheet covering England’s body, and then slowly slipped out. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at his feet, his face bright red and his insides cold as ice. Slowly, he groped around until he found his clothing and pulled them on. He didn’t turn around to face England again, kept his back to him. His hands shook as he tried to tighten his belt, his body shuddering. He felt far too cold.   
  
He hadn’t been that drunk. England knew that as well as America did. Maybe, though, he could pretend. England hadn’t pressed him, so he could use that escape if he had to—could pretend that he couldn’t remember and that he regretted.  
  
And he did—didn’t he? It was regret, wasn’t it?   
  
He’d gotten it out of his system. He could move on.   
  
Very slowly, he turned around to face England again, body slumped as he approached the edge of the bed. England looked empty, lying there alone. One hand stayed curled in the spot on the bed that America slept before. He was seized by the sudden urge to grab that hand. He leaned down, took it, squeezed it, and clenched his eyes shut.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said and didn’t know why he was apologizing.  
  
He was torn between waking him up or just leaving.   
  
He looked away and let go of England’s hand. It fell back down to the mattress, thumped slightly and stayed there. England didn’t move, didn’t stir. The hand stayed there, palm up, opened, waiting for America to come back.   
  
America turned away.   
  
“I hate waking up first,” America hissed quietly to himself, and glanced over his shoulder to make sure England was still sleeping. He was.  
  
America fled.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
England didn’t open his eyes right away when he woke up. He inhaled sharply, feeling chilled. He stayed like that, wondering if he should just try to sleep again. Even without opening his eyes, he knew that there was a scene he did not wish to see. But he couldn’t reclaim sleep. He blinked his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, already knowing that the bed was empty. Sure enough, when he turned his head he saw the disturbed sheets and no body lying there beside him. He shifted his hands, pressed them against his face a moment.   
  
“I knew this would happen,” he whispered to himself. “I’m not surprised. I’m not… disappointed.”  
  
For some reason that was beyond him, all he could do was laugh. Slightly hysterical laughter, but laughter all the less.   
  
“He chose to leave, then,” England decided, and closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. He kept the hands over his face, shielding his expression from the view of the world, an expression that no one was around to witness. “Like I’m a whore to be used. How like him.”   
  
It was just as well. England hadn’t expected anything different, not from a boy who so heroically threw himself headfirst into so many things but shied away from intimacy, especially when it was physical and with someone like England. England was too old and too tired and too hurt to begrudge the boy too much. Not truly. Maybe only a little, in the deep corners of his heart.  
  
He sighed and rolled over onto his side, pulling the sheets up around him. What followed was an unnatural silence, one where England tried to sleep and tried to suppress the feeling of abandonment and hurt he felt bubbling against his throat. It had not been the first time America broke his heart, and he figured it would not be the last. All he could do was keep breathing. And he certainly wasn’t crying. Certainly not. There was no reason to do so.   
  
He inhaled and exhaled, the breath rattling in the emptiness of the room.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He stayed in bed for far longer than was necessary, collecting himself and, frankly, wishing to avoid America. If America wished to avoid him in turn, then he would grant the boy that wish. But soon enough he got up, showered, dressed, and made himself some coffee. He spent a long amount of time looking out the window, gripping his coffee mug and observing the scenery without actually seeing anything. His coffee turned cold, untouched, the handle of the mug clenched in his grip. He stared out the window unblinking.  
  
But eventually he knew he had to go find him. He summoned his courage and left the hotel room, searching. He wasn’t sure where to look, exactly, when he didn’t find him in the lobby or the hotel’s café. It took a while, but he was able to find him, sitting in a gazebo in the hotel’s back courtyard. In early spring weather, the trees would be in bloom and petals would be falling from the sky in a fashion that England imagined would be quite pretty. But spring was waning now, almost summer, and the trees only had their leaves, which were rather pretty in their own right. They cast shadows across the courtyard, simple spots of sunlight spread across the scenery, from where the light filtered through the leaves. There was a warm green glow throughout, a warmth that didn’t reach England.  
  
The birds were singing as England spotted America, his back to him and sitting slightly hunched over. He appeared deep in thought, watching birds hop across the grass. England approached, walking across the pebble walkway leading up to the wooden structure. He moved slowly, being sure that his footsteps echoed in the courtyard so that America would know he was coming. He reminded himself that he couldn’t get what he wanted, not always. He told himself that he should be used to things like this. He told himself that he could just move on.   
  
America must have recognized the sound of his footfalls or instinctively knew that it was England, because he did not turn around as he approached, didn’t turn to see who it was coming near him. He did not jump when England climbed up into the gazebo as well, hand on the wooden support beams, watching his back and hesitation for half a moment, debating backing away now and pretending nothing had ever happened.   
  
“America,” he began, because he knew he had to. He approached America. He stopped far enough away, unable to bridge the rift that’d torn between them, widening with each passing moment.   
  
“Hey,” America said, still not looking at him. He sat on the gazebo’s low wall, one knee drawn to his chest. He watched the birds with extravagant fascination.   
  
“I—” England began.  
  
“You—” America started, at the same time as England.  
  
They both stopped and said nothing for a moment. Then America’s head flickered up, suddenly, and he moved to look back over his shoulder at England, twisting. He looked up at England and the look was enough to floor England, enough to make him pack his bags and run away, run fast and retreat until he was out of sight and alone and lonely again.   
  
England felt too exposed in the open air, as that look stared straight into him and chilled him down to his bones, down to his bone marrow. He had no words to say, no defense, against such a look. So he remained silent.   
  
“… You first,” England offered, when the silence stretched on.  
  
America’s face burned bright red as he turned his gaze away, clearing his throat. He said nothing for a long moment, and his head drooped slightly, his back hunched.   
  
“England,” America said, slowly, unsure. “I…”  
  
He drifted off, and they lapsed into another long silence.   
  
“How do you feel?” England asked abruptly when it became clear that America didn’t know what to say, or just didn’t want to say it. His heart throbbed in his throat, and there were so many things he wished to say. But he didn’t. He’d only been thinking of him, obsessively so. He’d only ever thought of America for so long, and now suddenly to have him so far away, when he was right there, after how close they’d been the night before…   
  
But England knew from the beginning that it wouldn’t last. He was filled with shame, knowing he’d used the alcohol as an excuse. They’d both pretended to be drunk, but neither of them were drunk now, and that was how it was. England knew in that moment that he was truly a pathetic person, to move willingly in order to have America like that, to let America want him like that when he should have known that it was nothing but a fantasy.   
  
He’d always known that. But it hadn’t stopped him.   
  
“Ill?” England asked when America didn’t respond right away.   
  
America’s shoulders relaxed an inch, as if he’d been hoping for the question. “Horrible headache. I’m so hung over.”  
  
“Ah,” England croaked, and wondered if America was telling the truth. Perhaps he had been drunker than he’d thought. In which case, England realized, he would have taken advantage of him the night before. He couldn’t be sure.   
  
“So…”  
  
“I apologize,” England said, cutting America off from having to say it. He crossed his arms. “I wasn’t thinking properly.” He paused and lied, “I was drunk.” Then he spoke the truth again, “I’m sorry.”   
  
The apology sounded feeble, even to his own ears. His voice was too quiet, his stance too rigid, for it to be completely genuine. Not completely. He was sorry, but not completely. What kind of person did that make him?   
  
_It was a lie._ He closed his eyes. But that didn’t stop him from thinking that he wished it was true. He wished that America could keep him, and move with him. But they had, once again, missed each other.   
  
But he was sorry. America clearly didn’t want it—clearly regretted it. He would never want to cause harm to him. Especially not like this.   
  
“You can forget everything that happened,” England told America’s back. He faced away from him, debated walking away, and instead sat down at the table in the center of the gazebo, facing away from America, and America facing away from him. Back to back.   
  
America was quiet a moment, and didn’t move. He sighed. “I was drunk, too. Really drunk.”  
  
“I know,” England said, allowing America that chance to back away, to separate himself. He watched the birds hop across the pebbled path he’d traveled across to reach America. And now he felt as if they were miles away again, alone and misunderstanding. “As was I.”  
  
America was quiet for a long moment, thinking over England’s words. They’d both been drunk. England said so himself; he was drunk. For some reason, instead of reassuring him, this only made America annoyed. But he didn’t know why. He glared at his feet for a moment, clasped his hands together and swallowed—trying to collect his words.   
  
But all he said was, “I would have had to be realllllllllllly drunk to have ever done something like that, ha ha. Especially with a guy like you.”  
  
He laughed, and it sounded too fake. So he quieted quickly. He mused for a moment, shoulders slumped, before he inhaled sharply, clenched his eyes shut, and straightened his back, sitting up straighter, properly, with great importance.   
  
“So,” America said, voice hushed. “Sorry, too. Cause why would you want to sleep with me, right? Haha. I definitely didn’t want to… sleep with you.”   
  
England didn’t speak quickly enough. He opened his mouth, but the words lodged in his throat and he found himself staring at the wooden planks that made up the floor of the gazebo.   
  
“I don’t even remember it—I mean, barely, at least,” America said, voice forcefully conversational now, nonchalant. His hands were shaking, so he clenched them together tighter. He hated the silence from England, but refused to turn around to look at him again. If he looked, he didn’t know what he would do. He breathed in sharply, and exhaled.   
  
England stayed silent.   
  
America continued, to fill the silence, “I mean, we’ve already talked about—why I wouldn’t do that kinda thing. I’m straight, right? And even if I wasn’t—and I’m not—you’d be the last man on earth I’d want to be with.”   
  
Again, England stayed silent. He couldn’t even hear him breathe.   
  
America closed his eyes, and refused the way his face prickled, as if something was trying to break free. He suppressed it. “It’s a good thing we were both drunk, or else this’d be really awkward and embarrassing, haha.”  
  
England still said nothing. _Why wasn’t he saying anything?_  
  
But this time, he heard England’s sharp inhale. It sounded shaky.  
  
“I…” he began.  
  
America interrupted him, “Luckily for you, a hero is always prepared! So we can just—uh—move on. Right?”   
  
England didn’t speak again. America clenched the wooden support to keep himself from turning around, from shouting at England. This was what he wanted, after all. He wanted to move on, to forget this ever happened. It wasn’t important anymore. It was in the past. And if there was one thing that America was good at, it was forgetting and ignoring things.   
  
“The sooner we move on, the better.”   
  
England sighed. This time he actually did speak. His voice was too low, too hushed, for America to determine what kind of mood he was in. “Yes,” he said, “We don’t really need to discuss this any further.”   
  
America glanced over his shoulder at England, but England was facing away from him. He turned back around, face burning red with shame and, he realized, annoyance. But he couldn’t understand why he was annoyed, why he felt the tension only intensify instead of dissipate, as it should have.   
  
“Yeah.”  
  
England glanced over his shoulder at America, but America was facing away from him again. He turned back around, face bright red. He bowed his head, inhaled for a moment, focused on just breathing. His shoulders felt too tense, so he lifted a hand and massaged one a moment, trying to work out the pain from the tired muscles. But it was stubborn.   
  
Sometimes, he really didn’t understand America. And he suspected that America didn’t understand him. He remembered from before, the demand for honesty. This was something he had to deny America. He couldn’t be honest now, couldn’t say he didn’t want to forget or that it didn’t have to be a mistake. But America was too uncomfortable, too shamed. He couldn’t force him to think or see anything like that.   
  
And really, he told himself, he shouldn’t want America to understand or want this, either. It would only cause problems. He didn’t want to. He didn’t.   
  
He heard America shift, then the soft thud of feet touching down to earth. England didn’t flinch. He heard footsteps, felt his heart beat in time to the footsteps, and almost turned to face him. But America did not stop. He breezed past.   
  
“Let’s get outta here.” America walked off the gazebo, past England.   
  
England closed his eyes, and ignored the strange, ridiculous urge to cry. He stood, cleared his throat, and sealed away his thoughts. He’d learned to be quite good at that, over the years.  
  
“… Yes.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
What commenced was, America suspected, the most awkward driving experience of all time. After a quick shower and change of clothes—to get the smell of England, of the night before, off of him—the two checked out from the hotel and hit the road once again. The truck was thick with tension and silence, not even the cackling radio could do much of anything. America kept it turned off because he didn’t feel like listening to music, not now.  
  
So they drove along the highway in silence, crossing a barren wasteland and the abundance of irrigated farmlands. They passed towns and America instantly forgot the name, and hours passed where he forgot to look at the signs outside, the speedometer, or the fuel gauge.   
  
He hadn’t been that drunk. He kept thinking about it. Kept going back to that little fact: _he hadn’t been that drunk._ But it was all in the past now, right? He’d been a bit tipsy, maybe a bit wobbly on his feet. But it’d been enough to motivate him, to take England’s words from before to heart. It’d been enough to work past the fear he refused to admit was there, enough to loosen his mind enough to get it out of his system, right? If he did something like that, it was supposed to be easy enough to blame it on the alcohol. That’s how it was done. He could be done with it, and never have to think on it again.   
  
Except now he was thinking about it exponentially more.   
  
Damn it.  
  
The tension was unbearable, the silence painful. America kept trying to think of something to say, even if it was _stupid_ to get some kind of conversation going, but every time he glanced at England out of the corner of his eye he lost his nerve. Usually England was turned away from him, looking out the window, but other times he just sat, hunched over slightly, his head bowed so that America could not see his eyes.   
  
He wasn’t supposed to be thinking these things about England. Maybe it was just a phase.   
  
They’d reached the Cascade mountains now, threading between the peeks on their way towards the coastline still a few hours away.   
  
England lifted his head. “Let’s stop here.”  
  
“Okay,” America said, without hesitation, thankful for an excuse to get out of the car and escape that silence.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
They got separate rooms.  
  
Somehow, America didn’t expect that though he realized he probably should have.  
  
“Goodnight. America,” England said in the hallway, opening his door and slipping inside. The door slammed shut before America could respond and it echoed down the empty halls of the motel.   
  
America frowned, unlocked his own door, and entered the room. He stared sadly at the single bed in the room, a king-sized but still looking lonely in the room. He’d grown used to one bedroom with two beds.   
  
He threw his bag down on the bed and let out a small groan of frustration. “What the hell is wrong with me?”  
  
He walked around the room, hands clenched in his hair and head thrown back to look at the ceiling. He muttered curses to himself in his frustration and carried on in such a fashion until his knee smashed into the armoire holding a television. Cursing for a much different reason, he fell back onto his bed, arms out at his sides and staring at the ceiling some more.  
  
“… Damn it,” he decided, because he could not stop thinking about England and he knew that he had to. Maybe it was okay because it hadn’t been a day yet. Yeah. He glanced at the mini-fridge, undoubtedly filled with all kinds of alcohol. He threw his arms over his face and groaned. “I am not going to drink ever again.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
England entered his new room, set his bag down gently on the chair and pulled at his tie, loosening and finally removing it. He kept his head down, removing his shoes and unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt before sitting down on the edge of his bed, back straight and hands clenched together.  
  
Then he slumped. He sighed, expression crumbling.  
  
“Running away,” he said absently, and whether he meant himself or America or both, he couldn’t be sure.  
  
He pressed his hands to his face, letting out another small, aggravated sigh, and pulled his fingers over his face before they flopped down to his side. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the kinks and sore muscles.   
  
“Well, this has suddenly become a disaster,” England murmured and looked over towards his door, debating going to see America before thinking better of it. He shook his head.   
  
He knew he should have stopped him last night, should have known he’d regret it and be terrified in the morning. He should have known the boy would rip it apart. He shouldn’t have let America try to drink him under the table. He should have—he should have—  
  
England ran his fingers through his hair before crossing his arms over his chest, face scrunched up in annoyance before fading away into something a bit more wistful.   
  
It didn’t stop the way he felt, though. Which was perhaps the most frustrating of all.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” America told himself, rolling around on his bed in hopes of facilitating some kind of cognitive impulse so he could figure out what the hell he should do about this entire situation.  
  
It didn’t work, but America was stubborn and kept at it until he was wrapped in something of a cocoon made of blankets and sheets. He wiggled around, inching inch by inch towards the edge of the bed before flopping down along the length of the king sized bed again, continuing his litany of ‘stupid’ until it slurred into one long, continuous strand of noise.   
  
“Okay, no!” America declared, sitting up abruptly, trying to wiggle his arms out of his blankets but being unable to, so he inched to the edge of the bed and hopped across the room to the mirror on the wall. He stared at himself, his glasses knocked slightly askew, everything but his face showing through the blankets and sheets wrapped tightly around him. “Time for a pep talk!”  
  
He stared at himself in the mirror for a moment before he stood up straighter, back straightening and shoulders squared. The determined look he was giving himself melted away into a self-satisfied look, one eyebrow cocked and a wolfish smile he didn’t really feel but had learned to make look genuine over years of practice.   
  
“Hey, dude,” America told himself and watched his reflection nod. “You’re awesome, right? The hero! Moping around and acting like an idiot isn’t going to solve your problems. You gotta face it head-on, yeah?”  
  
He nodded at his reflection and his reflection nodded back. America tossed his head slightly and the fold of blanket covering his hair fell back behind him and he shifted his face around until he found the perfect angle to accent his golden hair and give him the sinfully impish look that drove all the girls wild.  
  
“Yeah!” he said, answering his own question. He would have given himself a thumbs up if he wasn’t wrapped in blankets.   
  
He grinned.  
  
“So I’m going to march over there and talk with England and we’ll work this out and it’ll be great—yeah!”   
  
He shimmied his way out of the blankets. It took longer than a hero should be expected to take on preparation for visiting his current adversary, but he had to work with it. Eventually with a few kicks of his legs and only one small trip, in the most awesome of manners, America was on his way, bolting from his room (before quickly backtracking to grab his key). Bolting from his room, key in hand, he walked across the hall and stood in front of England’s door. He stared at the number on the door, bit his lip, then stood up straighter. He knocked.   
  
_You can do this. You’re great, you’re—_  
  
England opened the door.  
  
 _—Fucked._ America’s heart plummeted into his stomach.   
  
“England!” America shouted and choked at the same time, his voice squeaking. England gave him a slightly alarmed look as America lifted a hand and coughed into it, trying to clear his throat.   
  
“Yes?” England asked, looking up at him with wide eyes before seeming to remember himself and looking away, his face red.   
  
“Hurr,” America said intelligently as he forgot, once again, what he was about to say. He cleared his throat again and rocked back and forth on his heels.   
  
England was staring at America’s shoes.  
  
“England, I—” America began and cut himself off as the words escaped him again. Or, rather, they burrowed stubbornly into his throat and refused to budge. He tried to force the knot from his throat, tried to force the words out, but they wouldn’t move. “I—I—”  
  
England’s alarmed expression was gone now, replaced with something similar to quiet resignation. No, this wasn’t the way it was meant to go at all.  
  
“I—uh—was thinking.”  
  
“Oh?” England asked, cautious. Over the course of this trip, he’d learned to be wary of anything America was thinking, especially prefaced with ‘I was thinking’. He didn’t step back from the doorway and America stayed out in the hallway, stuffing his hands into his pockets and wiggling his bare toes into the carpet, self-conscious.  
  
“Yeah,” America said.   
  
“… About what?” England asked at last, and looked as if he did not want to ask.  
  
“About, uh, leaving. Going back.”  
  
America’s expression, he knew, matched England’s. They both looked shocked by the pronouncement. Then England’s face closed off, his eyes staring at nothing and his face thinned into a terse line. He didn’t turn to look at America, and instead seemed utterly fascinated by his hand on the door handle, as if afraid that if he let go it would fall away, or he himself would fall to the ground.   
  
“It’s your truck. Perhaps it’s better if… I leave. If that’s what you want. It’s all the same to me.”  
  
America chewed on the inside of his cheek. He almost back-tracked. Leaving hadn’t been his intention at all, coming over to England. A hero faced his problems head on. A hero didn’t run away! And yet, as he spoke, the words that tumbled from his mouth weren’t what he’d intended, but something else entirely, as if taking on a life of their own: “Yeah, but you’re doing all this to discover yourself or—uh—something…”   
  
England was silent, and still not looking at him.  
  
“Anyway,” America continued on, falsely taking England’s silence as agreement and fueling on that way, unable to backtrack now if England wanted it, “I could get a plane ticket and just be outta your hair—or something… and, uh. Yeah.”  
  
“If you want to leave, then leave,” England snapped suddenly, taking a step back. “It doesn’t matter to me what you do!”  
  
“Hey…” America began.  
  
England huffed, face red and still refusing to look at America. It felt strange, not to be able to meet England’s eyes. Everything had been going so well since before last night. And he’d come here to apologize, to spend time with England—not to leave. But his pride kept him from saying anything.  
  
“You seem to be under the impression that I somehow need to give you my blessing for everything you do—”  
  
“I do not—”  
  
“No, of course not. You never ask for anyone else’s opinions when doing whatever you damn well please, to hell with the consequences! Someone else will be there to clean up your mess, right?”  
  
“What are—where the hell did this come from?” America shouted.   
  
“Just do what you _want_ , America. That seems to be what you do best.”  
  
America realized in the back of his mind that, somehow, England must be hurt. He sounded angry but his rage didn’t reach his eyes. He looked too sad.   
  
But before America could dwell on this further, England had shut the door.  
  
“… HEY!” America shouted, pounding his fist against it. “We’re talking here—don’t just—”  
  
“This conversation is over,” England’s voice called through the door, muffled and far away. “Go away, America. You’ve seemed to have made your decision.”   
  
America kept knocking on the door and considered knocking it down—but the words England said before ‘to hell with the consequences’ ran through his head, and he stopped. He didn’t want to fight, and if England was going to say something without actually saying something than it was his own fault. If America was as stupid as England claimed he was, he should know that he had to say things straightforwardly in order for America to understand.  
  
He sighed, slumping, pressing his forehead against the door a moment.   
  
He closed his eyes. He whispered, surprised by the sadness in his own tone and unable to place why, “There are a lot of things I haven’t decided yet.”   
  
Then he returned to his room.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
America spent the night not sleeping but rather trying to find a plane ticket back to Manhattan. It didn’t go over well. He kept getting distracted by other things, other more pressing things, he felt—he checked his bank balance, read up on the news, played tetris for an hour, watched music videos on youtube, and rated movies on Amazon. These were all pressing matters to attend to, far more than trying to find plane tickets from one coast to the other.  
  
It was somewhere along the fourth hour where he still hadn’t bought plane tickets that he could be honest with himself and admit that he really didn’t want to go. He couldn’t understand why—they hadn’t done anything cool on this trip, England had been really rude and unfun, and the night before still weighed heavily on his mind. But he couldn’t deny that he was dragging his feet on leaving.  
  
So why?  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The next morning he woke up late, having gone to bed at stupid o’ clock in the morning (his own label for the time after four and before eight in the morning). He got up in order to address, for real this time, his desire to stay with England but when he opened his door and saw England’s door propped open as well, where two housekeepers were already working on stripping England’s bed.  
  
He burst out of his room with a small, strangled shout that alarmed the two housekeepers working at lugging sheets to their carts. They blinked at him in slight surprise and America stared right back at them.  
  
“The person in that room—he’s gone?”  
  
“The check out was about an hour ago, I believe,” one of the maid’s offered tentatively. America had missed his checkout, too. He’d have to pay for another day. But that wasn’t important.  
  
Shouting a loud thank you to the women, America barreled down the hallway towards the front entrance, trying to find where England had gone and hoping beyond hope that he hadn’t left without him.  
  
He threw himself through the lobby and out into the parking lot, darting to the place where they’d parked before. For half a moment he thought the truck was gone, but then he spotted it and he breathed a sigh of relief, only for the air to rush from his lungs again when he realized that England was sitting in the driver’s seat, as if prepared to drive away. America ran faster, his lungs burning and unsure why he ran with such rigor and without restraint—  
  
He didn’t want to be left behind. He didn’t want England to leave.   
  
“Eng—” he began to shout, nearly tripping himself over, worrying the car was about to pull away and leave without him.  
  
But England was hunched over, head bowed with hair spilling over his eyes. His hands clenched the steering wheel and save for the deep set of his breathing, he did not move. The truck wasn’t idling or anything. England just sat.   
  
There was a knot in America’s throat and it made it hard to breathe as he panted for air, resting against the back of the truck to recollect his breath. He inhaled sharply before walking up to England’s window. He hesitated, unsure. He hated uncertainty more than anything. America watched him a moment, then stepped forward, hitting his knuckles against the window and knocking.   
  
England jolted by the sudden, unexpected noise. He flinched, sitting upright, with wide eyes. The eyes only seemed to widen as they caught America’s attention and held firm. It seemed as if it’d been forever since they looked one another in the eye, and America felt a secret thrill when their eyes didn’t pull away from one another, the buffer of the window between them.  
  
“England…” America said quietly, and England blinked at him, reading his lips but not hearing his words.  
  
America inhaled again, feeling as if his breathing was back to normal but painfully aware of the hammering of his heart, beating against the inside of his ribcage insistently. It was something he could have done without, but it couldn’t be helped for the time being. What was important was speaking with England, to not let him get away. He would take that chance.  
  
America made a hand gesture meaning for him to roll the window down. England looked confused for a moment and America rolled his eyes. When their eyes found each other again, England was frowning and glaring, but he refused to roll down the window or open the door. The doors were locked.  
  
America took a step forward, leaning forward so that his face was in front of England’s. England leaned in closer, so close that his nose almost touched the window. There was just the smallest of panes of glass between them. America’s blue eyes stared at England, looked at him without restraint, without pulling away. England’s expression shifted, seemed to ripple. The angry look was gone now, and America didn’t know how to place that expression—he wasn’t sure if he would want to. It was better, in some cases, to be ignorant.  
  
America knocked on the window again. “Roll it down,” he said, making sure his voice was loud enough for England through the window. “Come on.”  
  
England fumbled a moment but managed to turn the crank down, lowering the window inch by little inch. The buffer between them lowered, and there was nothing but air between them. England’s eyes flickered up and found America’s.  
  
“Hi,” America said softly.   
  
“… Hello,” England said, voice equally as hushed.   
  
They lapsed into a silence. America refused to admit defeat.  
  
“What’re you doing here?”  
  
“That’s rude,” England muttered.  
  
“No—I meant… Check-out was an hour ago.” America’s brow furrowed.   
  
“I’m well aware of that, idiot. That’s why I’m here.”  
  
“And you didn’t wake me up.”  
  
“No,” England said softly. “I know.”   
  
“You didn’t leave,” America said and didn’t ask the question he wanted to. There were so many questions waiting to be asked, and America refused.   
  
“I was collecting myself,” England said primly. He looked away now, and with it gone, America realized how much he missed looking at England and letting England look at him back.   
  
“Collecting yourself.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Oh,” America muttered. He paused, then dared to ask, “For an… hour?”  
  
“Shut it, America.” England sounded tired.   
  
They stayed in silence, England staring straight ahead and America staring at him, at his hands, at the line of his jaw— _stop_.   
  
America inhaled and said, “I, uh, couldn’t find a flight. So I guess you’re stuck with me.”  
  
England didn’t say anything.  
  
America told himself he wasn’t disappointed by the lack of an answer. He mumbled, “If you want me, at least.”  
  
England’s expression flickered; he looked as if he was on the verge of saying something— _yes, of course I want you_ —but it was gone within the barest shadow of a moment. He shook his head.  
  
“It doesn’t matter to me.” England turned to look up at him again.   
  
Their gazes locked.   
  
“Doesn’t it?” America asked, and wasn’t sure why he asked.  
  
England looked alarmed.  
  
America added, “Cause, ya know, roadtrips are serious. Important business, and all.”   
  
England’s eyes weren’t pulling away from his. They were such a dark green—but he looked about ready to bolt, ready to run as far as he could. Never mind that he was already buckled into the seat.   
  
“Tell me I should stay, and I will. But I’ll only go if you say.” America’s eyebrows slanted down in his determination, hands clenched in his pockets. His hands were sweaty. He felt stupid for being nervous—but he was. He wanted to hear England’s answer—worried for it and longed for it.   
  
England’s face was red. America ignored that. England muttered, “Didn’t I say that you should do what you want?”  
  
“Yeah, well,” America said with what he hoped was a haughty sniff. “I want to listen to what you want, right now,” America shot back. “So answer me.”   
  
England was quiet for a long moment. Then he looked down at his hands gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles bone white from the tightened grip.  
  
Then he unbuckled his seatbelt and scooted to the passenger seat, looking away. “I’m too tired to drive. You should stay.”   
  
America knew that was as honest of an answer he was going to get, and happily climbed into the truck.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are back to "normal", and America convinces himself that this is what he wants.

America climbed into the car, settled, buckled his seatbelt, and turned to look at England.   
  
“What?” England asked when he felt the eyes on him.   
  
“Uh…” America began.  
  
England looked away. “I’m not in the mood to talk right now, America.”   
  
“But…”  
  
“Just drive,” England said softly. “Please.”   
  
“… Okay,” America said, his own voice quiet, turning the key in the ignition and feeling the truck hum to life beneath them. America drove them to the highway and merged effortlessly, weaving between the mountains as they made their way westward. Soon enough they’d made it through the mountain pass, and were making their way steadily towards the end of interstate 90, ending in Seattle.   
  
“Only about another hour and we’ll have made it to the other coast,” America said, then scratched his chin. “Or, the end of the interstate, at least. It’s not really the exact coastline, Seattle.”   
  
“Hmm,” England hummed, looking down at his hands.   
  
“And then we’ll head south!” America declared, stubbornly holding on to their earlier plans, current relations between them regardless! It wasn’t his fault that England was still being kind of awkward and annoying about everything. Nothing was his fault. It sucked that everything had turned out this way—he just wanted everything to return to normal, for things to go back to the way they were.   
  
“Ah,” England said, looking out the window now.  
  
America frowned at his profile, before turning his eyes back towards the front of the road, moving onwards. “Surprised we haven’t killed each other yet.”   
  
“I have the patience of a saint, I suppose,” England muttered.  
  
America chewed on his lower lip and then grinned. “I guess so.”   
  
They drove in a strained silence.   
  
Until, abruptly, America shouted out, “SHIT.”  
  
England jumped. “What is it?”  
  
“I forgot my stuff at the hotel!”   
  
“You—WHAT?”   
  
“My stuuuuuuff,” America whined, and looked as if he wanted to brake while in the middle of the highway. He kept driving, but looked distressed. “Crap!”   
  
“How could you possibly forget all your things you daft—”  
  
“I opened the door and the cleaning ladies were in your room so I flipped out and thought you’d left so I only thought about making sure, not worrying about my stuff,” America rattled off quickly, slapping his fists against the steering wheel and looking alarmed. “And then I forgot cause I was talking to you and you looked—!”   
  
He swallowed, cutting off abruptly—he didn’t want to think about how England had looked then, slumped over, alone in the car. He didn’t like to think about the way his chest seemed to constrict whenever he thought about it, and about everything that had happened. It wasn’t his fault. It couldn’t be. He refused to look into it.   
  
England didn’t say anything for a long moment, he was too busy giving America the most withering of looks, as if trying to induce a sudden, spontaneous coma. America pulled off at the next exit, rounding the truck along the roadway to turn onto the on-ramp leading to the eastbound highway.  
  
England grabbed the steering wheel at the traffic light. “You are _not_ turning around.”   
  
“But it’s my stuff! I can’t just _leave_ it there!” America barked, trying to slap England’s hand off the steering wheel. England refused to budge, so America lifted one hand to push at England’s shoulder to force him back into his moody corner on the other side of the truck.   
  
“I refuse to go backwards and spend more time than necessary in this ridiculous truck! We should just keep moving.”  
  
“That’s easy for you to say! You still have all your stuff!”  
  
What commenced was a struggle for control over the steering wheel. Thankfully, there were no cars around, as the light cycled through a few green lights and the truck did not move. America shoved against England and England pushed him back a bit harder than was strictly necessary. All the while, neither gave in to the other, both refusing to move their hands from the steering wheel.  
  
“We’ll just call the hotel and they’ll ship it back to your home,” England said through grit teeth.  
  
“Yeah, after they steal all my important crap! Come oooon, England, it’s only like two hours away from here!”   
  
“I don’t—”  
  
“Please!”   
  
Their eyes locked and America stared at him and England stared back.   
  
“… _Fine_ ,” England hissed, let go of the steering wheel, and turned away, his arms crossing and refusing to look at America again. “But I’m sleeping the entire way. Wake me up when you’ve stopped wasting both our times.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Halfway back to the motel, England slumped over onto America’s shoulder. Snoring peacefully, he didn’t even stir. America jolted in surprise, his breath catching.   
  
“Geez…” he muttered. “You’re always such a pain, you know?”   
  
England, predictably, didn’t respond. It was just as well. America sighed and, with the great patience of the greatest of heroes, slowed his foot off the accelerator. He shifted, gripping the steering wheel between his knees and twisted, wrapping his fingers around England’s shoulders. Then with the gentlest of care, he moved England so he was leaning against the window. England remained relax, slumping slightly until he seemed to bow against the slant of the truck door. Still steering with his knees, America shimmied slightly, slipping out of his worn leather jacket. Once off, only getting his left arm stuck enough for him to flail his way out of the fabric, he draped it over England’s shoulders.   
  
His hands returned to the steering wheel and he seemed to speed up, eager to return to the motel and get his things as quickly as possible. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at England. He felt a little cold now, but England looked colder. So it was okay.  
  
He licked his lips and let out a small sigh. “Hey, England… what am I doing?”  
  
Again, predictably, England didn’t answer. It seemed England, no matter what, was good at not answering his questions when America needed answers most.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Hey, England, wake up!” America yelled and shoved England. England, who’d been sleeping quite peacefully for the last few hours, suddenly found his face smooshed against the window, and his hair being knocked askew by an overly eager hand.  
  
“Stop that,” he demanded, slapping America’s hand away. “I’m awake. What do you want?”  
  
“You told me to wake you up when I stopped wasting our time!” America reminded, poking England in the shoulder until England sat up, glaring at him.  
  
“And?” he asked, and looked outside. They were sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the highway, but America was grinning.   
  
“We did it! We’re in Seattle!” America cheered. “And I have all my stuff now, good as new. And you’re a jerk who slept for four hours without once giving me any company.”  
  
England deadpanned at him and then looked over the slivers of cityscape they could see from their truck’s position. “Congratulations.”   
  
He sat up fully and America’s jacket slipped into his lap. He stared at it for a long moment, shocked. He glanced at America out of the corner of his eye and was slightly taken aback by America grinning at him, still. England looked away.  
  
“Hey, if you’re done with my jacket, can I have it back?”  
  
England handed it over wordlessly. America unbuckled his seatbelt and squeezed his way back into his jacket, adjusting the collar and pulling the sleeves up towards his knuckles before redoing his belt and returning his hands to the steering wheel, all with enough time to creep forward the barest sliver of an inch to line up along the car in front of him.   
  
England looked outside again, scanning the city as he waited for America to inch along the highway. He felt too tired to feel too cheered, as they still had along ways to go—and then heading back. He wondered if he would be able to handle getting all the way to Los Angeles without having some kind of breakdown. This entire trip, really, was a disaster. He’d made a mistake letting America come along, to allow himself these moments of vulnerable weakness. Perhaps it would be better to return home now, to let America continue on his delusions and reassurances.   
  
“You could be a little happier, ya know.”  
  
“What’s there to be happy about?” England muttered.  
  
“Wow, that’s morbid!” America said.  
  
England turned his attention back towards America, looking far too tired for his own good. “You hate it when I say you act like an idiot, and then you go and say things like that.”  
  
The grin on America’s face withered and died, replaced by a small frown. He looked at England before glancing ahead and creeping the car forward. Once done, he turned back towards England.   
  
“Look, I’m trying here.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yeah—! We… dude, don’t make me _say_ it.”  
  
“Say it,” England commanded, looking away again.  
  
“I’m trying to act like things’re normal, ya know? Back to the way it was before.”  
  
“The way it was _before?_ ” England snapped. “As if things were any better before—as if you can wind back the clock and—”  
  
“This is what we agreed to _do_ ,” America shot back.  
  
“As if I could—”  
  
“England—”  
  
“America—”  
  
“For our friendship, I mean. You’re my friend, I want to be your friend. England, I don’t want to fight…”  
  
“How can you sit there and say these things after you’ve—use your brain, you idiot. Do you even realize the things you _do?_ ”  
  
“I would if you’d just tell me,” America cried out.  
  
England shook his head. “Just—think— _think_.”  
  
“I am _thinking_ ,” America shouted, looking frustrated, the hands gripping the steering wheel shaking slightly. The car in front of him had moved forward a ways, and America jumped when a horn honked behind him. He moved forward a bit too quickly, and had to press on the brakes before he could crash into the car in front of him. They both jerked forward slightly.   
  
“It might be easy for someone like you to forget, but normal people—people cannot simply—to forget something like that, it’s—!”   
  
England shook his head and seemed to curl into himself. He gripped his sides.  
  
“England, I don’t understand,” America shouted. “Just say it!”   
  
“You foolish, foolish boy. You—”  
  
“Tell me what I’m doing wrong,” America interrupted, gripping his hands. “I don’t know what to do, England! I’m supposed to know and I _don’t._ I’m trying—I’m trying to understand, but I can’t understand if you just won’t tell me! So be honest with me!”  
  
“How can you expect me to be honest when—”  
  
“I know I’ve fucked up—okay? But I’m trying to make it better! Fuck, you’re my _friend_ , England. I’m trying to treat you that way! I’m trying!”  
  
“Trying isn’t good enough sometimes!”  
  
“But it’s all I can do right now! I’m _sorry_!”   
  
“Well—”  
  
“What do you _want_ from me?” America asked, and almost hated that he anticipated and dreaded the answer, staring at him with wide eyes and waiting.  
  
England stared at him, alarmed, before he cleared his throat. “I don’t… I don’t want anything from you.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“You don’t mean anything to me. A-aside from… a friend, yes. Perhaps. You’ll never be anything but a boy to me, a stupid, selfish boy.”   
  
“Hey—!” America began to protest, hating the way his heart clenched in his chest.   
  
“You’re… I can’t… I can’t help it if I—”  
  
“If you what?”  
  
England seemed to remember himself because he shook his head rapidly, and laughed, the wrenching notes bitter and dry in the tensed silence filtering between them.   
  
America felt desperate as he shouted, “This is the best I can do, England—this is all I can give you!”   
  
They stared at each other, America’s eyes widened and distracted, large blue eyes boring into England’s expression. England, slightly flabbergasted, worked his mouth as he tried to find the words. But the words didn’t come. He stiffened up, straightened, lifted his hand. For a brief second America thought England was going to punch him.  
  
But instead, England’s eyes widened and he recoiled, lifting a hand to cover his face, ducking back and bowing down.   
  
“Oh… oh…” he said quietly, and cleared his throat. “Of course. Yes. You’re right. I’m sorry. I forgot myself, yes. Yes, you’re right, America. Acting normally is important.”   
  
Never in his life had America hated to be told he was right. England was dismissing him, avoiding saying something. That, at least, America could tell. His expression crumbled and in that moment he must have looked very pathetic, because when England looked up at him he sighed. America lifted his hand and grabbed England’s wrist, pulling it away from his face.  
  
England looked up in surprise, eyes wide.  
  
America didn’t let go of his wrist, but kept his hold loose in anticipation of England pulling back. He didn’t, though.   
  
“Don’t cry,” America said.  
  
England ruffled up. “ _Who’s_ crying? Certainly not me.”  
  
America’s expression flickered, his eyebrows slanting and his lips thinning into a small line. His heart hammered in his chest, and he couldn’t even understand why he was acting this way, only that he was.   
  
“Right…” America said slowly. He bit his lower lip, worried it between his teeth. England’s eyes flickered to America’s mouth, watching him do so, before he remembered himself and forced his eyes upwards, green eyes on blue eyes.   
  
America swallowed the thick lump in his throat.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said.  
  
England looked surprised, yet again. America hated to turn his gaze away, but he had to, and moved the truck forward in the bumper-to-bumper traffic. He inhaled, deep and even, and turned his attention back to England. England’s gaze had not wavered.  
  
Exasperated, England slowly pulled his hand out of America’s hold. America’s hand hovered in the air before recoiling, returning to America’s side. England’s hand seemed to be shaking, for half a moment, before both his hands busied themselves adjusting England’s tie. England swallowed thickly, as if there, too, was a lump in his throat, as large as America’s.   
  
“Good heavens,” England muttered. “What are you apologizing for now, my dear lad?”   
  
“All I’ve done so far is fuck up,” America muttered.  
  
Much to America’s shock, England lifted a hand and patted America’s cheek, briefly, before pulling back again and turning away.   
  
“You’re a dear… friend to me, America,” England murmured. “Despite my behavior. I apologize. I’m tired.”  
  
“Yeah…” America breathed, face stuck in perpetual surprise. “I’m tired, too.”   
  
They descended, once again, into silence.   
  
“So, let’s continue, shall we?” England drawled.  
  
“What—fighting?”  
  
England deadpanned at him. “No, you fool. I meant… well.”   
  
“Oh,” America blinked. He grinned. “Being friends, you mean?”  
  
England closed his eyes, and breathed, “Yes.”  
  
“You coulda just said it.”  
  
“Friends,” England admitted.  
  
“Yeah,” America said, and ignored the stirring in his chest. “Friends.”   
  
England opened his eyes to look to America, once again, who was grinning widely, looking fabulously accomplished. Despite all his frustrations and his feelings, England couldn’t help but find that expression endearing. Before he could stop himself, he was smiling at him. America’s beaming smile seemed to widen upon seeing England’s shy, slightly misplaced smile.   
  
He flashed England a thumbs up and then curled his hand into a fist, holding it out to England.  
  
England stared at the proffered hand. “What…?”  
  
“Fist bump,” America urged, shaking his fist a little. “Come on.”  
  
England stared and then, before he even realized he was doing it, gave America his fist bump, their hands pressing together briefly before falling apart.   
  
“Awesome!” America decided. He turned back towards he traffic and his smile dimmed a bit. “Though the dinnertime traffic isn’t so awesome. I’m hungry!”   
  
“We’ll make it through,” England responded, closing his eyes. “Everything will move forward, eventually.”   
  
“Huh, yeah, I guess…” America trailed off, glancing at England. He hated it when England just proved how old he was, when it sounded as if he was speaking to something completely different, from a place in the past that America had never seen.   
  
“It won’t help if you get antsy, though. Honestly, America, you get overexcited and eager over the silliest of things.” England shrugged, quickly returning to the present.   
  
“Ha ha, shut up!” America said, his grin almost sheepish now. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. He hummed for a moment before he sighed, slumping a little. “I don’t like traffic.”  
  
“I can’t think of anyone who does like traffic, America,” England replied.  
  
America scratched his head, mushing up his hair to the point where England wanted to reach over and fix it for him, but restrained himself.   
  
“Yeah, I guess so,” America agreed with another sigh and an annoyed little wiggle as he attempted to make himself more comfortable, his foot still on the brake. “Guess everyone’s hungry right now, huh?”  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
America stomach growled in protest, after that. England glanced at him before his gaze flickered away and the tiniest of smiles played across his face. America pointedly ignored the way such an expression made his stomach flop down into the pit of his stomach, which continued to growl.   
  
“We should get food.”  
  
“Not that we can really move, for the time being,” England pointed out.   
  
“Yeah. Damn!”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Eventually the traffic cleared up, and America got his food. They merged off the westbound highway and onto the southbound highway, drifting further and further away from Seattle. They drove south for a few more hours, through Washington and just into Oregon before they decided to stop for the day. They stayed at a little motel off the highway, with two separate rooms.   
  
It felt strange again to be in different rooms after so many days sharing one room. America set his bag on his bed and collapsed onto it, slumping and letting out a small sigh. It was too quiet to be in a place where he couldn’t tease England. Everything was too fucked up ever since—  
  
Things had seemed to get better after Seattle. England was still quiet, but he didn’t seem as annoyed. He seemed more resigned, America realized in hindsight. Resigned.   
  
The ice had broken, at least. At least, America liked to think so. It seemed easier to talk to England after Seattle, after seeing that little smile of his that made him think that maybe everything would be okay, in the end. They’d teased and sassed each other the entire ride south, which was encouraging to America.   
  
So everything would go back to normal, soon. Everything would go back to the way it was before.  
  
That was what America wanted, right?   
  
But his mind kept drifting back to their argument, to the words England shouted at him. The words England said and refused to elaborate on. He wanted to know. He told himself that he shouldn’t think about it, that he should move on.  
  
But he couldn’t.  
  
He just couldn’t.  
  
So he lingered on it. So he thought it over, weighed every piece of conversation in his mind, and trailed back, searching, always searching. If someone was to ask him why he was doing it, he wouldn’t have been able to say so. It was all supposed to be in the past now—they were meant to move on, to move forward. Things would return to normal.  
  
He refused to explore just why that seemed so important to him. At least, it seemed normal. But things were better. Because everything was back to normal, aside from the separate rooms. They were talking and fighting with each other again, which was the way it was supposed to be. Before, they’d both been drunk, and they both regretted it so there was nothing to talk about and it was better to just move on. It didn’t mean anything and they regretted it—  
  
Right?   
  
  
\---  
  
  
England watched himself in the mirror, studying his expression before patting down his hair and squeezing out a drop of toothpaste onto his toothbrush. He brushed his teeth with meticulous care, eyes not leaving his reflection but his mind away from the room—in fact, it was drifting towards another room entirely.  
  
He’d tried to remedy his thoughts too many times over too many years, and at this point he understood that it was just better to let it do what it wanted. So he thought of America, just as he always did.   
  
He finished brushing his teeth and spat into the sink, rinsing and wiping his mouth with a towel. He glanced up at his reflection, hunched over the sink, green eyes hooded, before he righted himself and squared his shoulders.   
  
“There’s no sense in acting this way,” he told himself, as he always told himself when his thoughts steered down the lonely path that always led back to America.   
  
Green eyes flickered at him in the mirror, and he had to drop his gaze away, gripping the edge of the sink. “Stupid lad.”   
  
He was always charging ahead, loud and obnoxious and self-centered, never pausing to think or to assess the situation. He never did anything right. He was only concerned about himself and his own feelings above everyone else’s. Even now, all he could do was be a selfish, self-centered child. But England did nothing, in these situations.   
  
And yet, England knew that he was the fool, for caring despite all his faults. His eyes met his reflection again and he leaned forward, studying his face. His eyebrows slanted downwards and he narrowed his eyes.  
  
“You’re even stupider,” he told himself and his reflection did not protest the insult.   
  
But if America wanted to act like nothing had happened, fine. He could do that, too. He’d grown very talented as sealing his heart and hiding his feelings. And it helped that America was perfectly horrid at reading the atmosphere and understanding what England said even when he was saying nothing.   
  
England nearly smashed his forehead against the mirror in his surprise when he heard the door knock, startling him from his thoughts.  
  
Frowning at his reflection, he pulled away and moved to the door, checking through the peephole and seeing America standing out in the hallway, arms crossed and looking kind of awkward, looking around from side to side, peering down the hallway. England closed his eyes for a moment, breathing and gathering his thoughts. Making sure his emotions were checked, tucked away securely, England opened his eyes, turned the handle, and opened the door to America.   
  
“America,” he greeted. “Do you need something?”   
  
“Just wanted to hang out,” America admitted, sheepish. He offered England an almost tentative smile. “Uh. If it’s okay.”  
  
“I can’t see why it wouldn’t be,” England said.  
  
A smile bloomed across America’s face. He positively beamed. “It’s boring watching T.V. by myself!”  
  
“How devastating for you,” England drawled, but pushed back and let America into the room.   
  
He walked away and heard America follow him.  
  
“I suppose I can indulge you in such a way.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
A few hours later found America sitting on England’s bed eating food and watching television while England sat on the couch in the corner reading his book, legs crossed and attention turned specifically away from America.   
  
The loud munching and laughter made him glance up occasionally, however, if only to scowl at America’s antics. “You’re getting crumbs in my bed.”  
  
“Huh?” America said around a mouthful of popcorn, and more crumbs spilled out and tumbled forlornly into England’s bed. England felt his eyebrow twitch.  
  
“Crumbs,” England said again. He gestured. “In my bed.”   
  
“Oh,” America said, and almost made fun of him before he paused. He looked guilty, and then dusted his hand over the sheets. “… Sorry.”  
  
England glanced up at him and snorted, softly, as if in disbelief. But he smiled.  
  
“It doesn’t matter. You can stay there and sleep there. I’ll go to your room and use your bed once I tire of you. Problem solved.”  
  
“As if you could tire of me,” America protested, but the dramatic effect was lost around the munching and crunching of his food and the way that a kernel of popcorn dropped under his shirt and he had to fish around for it.   
  
England rolled his eyes. “Truly. I do not know how you aren’t in constant company of everyone you’re involved with.”  
  
“It’s cause you all don’t like to share me,” America said with a grin. “I know how you old men like your one-on-one time.”  
  
“We aren’t that old. You’re the young one.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah, whatever England,” America said and continued eating.   
  
England snorted. He glanced back down at his book, intent on ignoring America from then on.  
  
The younger nation had other plans, laughing obnoxiously at the television when something particularly juvenile was said.   
  
“I don’t understand it,” England said after a pause.  
  
“Hm?”   
  
“How you can laugh like a fool over sex jokes on television but the topic of it makes you uncomfortable otherwise.”   
  
America looked uncomfortable now, true to England’s words, but England realized belatedly this was probably because of—they’d only just recently gotten to the point where they could look each other in the eye, and considering how recently they’d slept together, England found it remarkable. It was a rare day when it was England mucking things up as opposed to America.  
  
“You know,” he added lamely, “In general.”  
  
They sat in silence a moment before America grinned.   
  
“I guess I can’t help it,” America said with a laugh. “I don’t do—uh—ya know—a lot. So I guess I just don’t talk about it, or something. Doesn’t mean I can’t find it funny or interesting… I just don’t talk about it.”   
  
“It’s strange for there to be something you don’t want to talk about,” England said with a roll of his eyes. “Almost seems unlike you, you loud mouth.”   
  
“Hey,” America protested, laughing but still sounding a bit uncomfortable and nervous.  
  
England knew his own voice reflected that, as well. He cleared his throat a few times. “It doesn’t matter to me, in the end. I was merely observing. What you do and think is hardly any of my concern, so don’t misunderstand.”   
  
“I don’t,” America agreed, turning back towards the television. “I know you’re just a dirty, perverted old man.”  
  
England squawked indignantly, “I most certainly am _not!_ ”  
  
“You are,” America assured.   
  
England muttered a few curses under his breath, damning America’s name.   
  
America continued grinning,   
  
They continued in such a fashion for several hours, England huffing and occasionally spouting out snide remarks that America rebuked or pouted at, until the dumb shows America was watching made way for news and late night programming and he nodded off, head lolling slightly from one side to another. England didn’t notice this change, as reading his book he’d learned to block out all of America’s stupidity and his stupid television programming.   
  
When America let out a long snore, however, he did hazard to glance upwards and looked slightly put upon once he saw the boy slumped over himself and food all over his bed.  
  
He sighed and marked his place, standing up.   
  
He clicked off the light and the room was bathed in darkness, save for the steady glow of the television, flashing its advertisements and stories. England strolled around the room, composing himself and preparing to leave to go to America’s room to sleep—once he found the boy’s key.   
  
America snored loudly again when England approached him, brushing some crumbs from the bed and moving the food and remote onto the bedside table. He didn’t turn the television off because he would be in darkness after that, so he merely clicked it onto mute, and was met with blissful silence save for America’s deep breathing.   
  
England stared down at him, and reached out a hand to brush some of the crumbs off his face.   
  
Then very gently, with the smallest of sighs, England squeezed his hands under America’s body, almost cradling him, and laying him back onto his back on the bed. Making sure he was in a comfortable position, as opposed to slump slightly forward with his back to the headboard, England adjusted some of the pillows for him and made sure he was comfortable.   
  
America showed his appreciation from sleeping on blissfully, and snoring, blowing popcorn-scented air into England’s face.  
  
England cringed and glared at the boy, then stuffed his hand into America’s pocket, searching around for the keycard so he could go to the other bed. He dug first in one pocket, and then the other, and had no success.   
  
He recoiled slightly, frowning. He glanced up at the boy’s sleeping face, annoyed. “Did you forget it in your room, you stupid thing?”   
  
America slept.  
  
“You’ll ruin me,” England decided and shook his head. It was the couch for him, then. Even he couldn’t have the heart to wake the stupid boy up and yell at him—besides, there were too many crumbs.   
  
He brushed his hand over America’s forehead, pushing aside the golden hair absently, eyes hooded. He let out a small sigh as America, in turn, sighed in his sleep, sinking into the soft mattress with a small, absent smile.   
  
The bed was big enough that they could both comfortably sleep in it. But England knew better. It’d be too much like before, waking up like that. He wasn’t sure if he could handle waking up to another reaction like from America, before. So he contented himself with brushing his fingers through his hair, being gentle with him when he knew that America wouldn’t remember and wouldn’t be able to make a protest about it being too sappy.   
  
He leaned closer, expression softening and yet crumbling, gentle yet pained.   
  
He knew that he couldn’t possibly have America understand, that America wasn’t ready to understand. He didn’t think he ever would, and realizing with such dread that any glimmers of hope he may have housed before were completely devastated was enough to make him want to cry. But he had to hold it together, had to. Perhaps, in time, now that hope was completely gone, he could finally, finally move on.   
  
“Dear boy,” England murmured, lips brushing over the skin of his forehead, eyes shutting as he cradled America’s head gently. He inhaled sharply, composed himself, and pulled his lips away. “My… Stupid boy.”   
  
He stayed like that for a long moment, lips pressed to his forehead before drawing away. He clenched his eyes shut. He could hear America breathing, his head hovering above America’s. He couldn’t stop himself when the tears welled up in his eyes. He wasn’t surprised when a droplet splashed over America’s cheek.  
  
“Damn it,” he whispered.   
  
The tears spilled and he tried to stop it now, but couldn’t. So he let them flow.   
  
“You stupid, stupid boy—” England gasped, his voice wavered and broken. He covered his face with one hand but still the tears spilled out. “And I’m stupid. I’m so stupid—”  
  
America snored, sleeping peacefully on even as teardrop after teardrop fell onto his cheeks and spilled down to the blanket below, as if America was the one crying. England bit into his hand to muffle the ridiculous welling of feelings, but it wouldn’t stop. His embarrassment and shame raged and coiled in his chest.   
  
“You expect it to be so easy to go back to ‘normal’—how can you expect me to do that—”  
  
He inhaled sharply and recoiled. His hands pulled away and he grabbed the duvet instead, pulling it up over America’s slumbering form. He sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at him. He bit his lip and forced the tears away.  
  
He sniffled slightly, nose runny. He hated himself.   
  
“It’s not so easy to be normal, you know,” he told the slumbering America. He turned his face away, frustrated. “You stupid boy… so, so stupid. Not everyone can forget so easily.”  
  
America snored.  
  
England sighed and pressed a hand to his face again. “But in the end, I’m the most foolish, aren’t I?”   
  
He turned away and retreated to the couch.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“I’m going to have to move soon,” America said the next morning, propping his feet up on the dashboard, hunched over in his seat so that he could only see the sky and the lines of trees.  
  
England scowled at his poor posture but didn’t comment on it. He was the one driving today. He said, primly, no detection in his face or voice of his overwhelming emotion the night before, “Oh?”  
  
“I’ve been in my current apartment for a long time. They’ll start to wonder why I still look like I’m fresh outta college.”  
  
“Do you know where you’ll move to?” England asked.  
  
“I hadn’t thought about it,” America said softly. He watched the sky, the same color as his eyes.   
  
“Anywhere we’ve stopped at that you liked, then?”   
  
“I want to go somewhere where I can see the stars—not necessarily Montana, though. Just… somewhere.” England couldn’t quite place why, but America sounded melancholy as he spoke, staring up at the sky, though there were no stars in the daylight. He glanced at America, hunched over and curling into himself.  
  
He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out his hand and brushing his fingers through the other nation’s hair, patting him slightly before pulling his hand back and returning it to the steering wheel. He could feel America’s questioning gaze on him but he did not turn to look.  
  
“You’ll find a place,” England told him.   
  
America could feel his face burning and was glad that England didn’t turn to look at him. He lifted a hand absently, touching where England had touched, still feeling as if he were light-headed. He slumped further, letting his head loll against the seat’s back. He closed his eyes a moment and found he disliked being unable to see when he could feel the light pressing against his eyelids, and opened them again.   
  
England kept driving, kept not looking at him.  
  
America wanted him to look, wanted to look at England.  
  
No, no he didn’t.  
  
But he did.  
  
But he shouldn’t.  
  
But he did.  
  
He closed his eyes again, let out the smallest of sighs. They drove in silence, England focusing on the road and America focusing on denying the feelings bubbling inside him, the feelings he did not want to acknowledge and hoped would leave him be if he were to ignore them long enough.   
  
“Where do you think I should live? What places did you like the most so far?”   
  
England contemplated this question a moment, slightly taken aback. “Why do you care?”  
  
America pretended that the question hadn’t hurt him. Instead, he shrugged. Nonchalance. “So you won’t bitch when I make you come visit me.”   
  
“Well, so far Washington and Oregon have had weather I’m more used to,” England said slowly, after a pause. But too many things had happened in those two states. He never wanted to go back.  
  
“But they’re also farther away from you—uh, and my capital,” America said, biting his tongue slightly to keep him from saying more foolish things.  
  
England sighed. “Yes. It’s true.” He paused, then added, “Not that I visit that much even with you in New York.”   
  
“You could visit me more if you really wanted to,” America muttered.  
  
“Hm,” England said and it wasn’t confirmation or denial.   
  
“… I want you to,” America said, turning fully to face England, despite his compact position, feet on the dashboard, shoes pressing up against the windshield.   
  
“I can’t see the side mirror when you sit like that,” England whispered, face bright red because he could feel America’s gaze on him. He cleared his throat, stiffening up and looking more and more like an insulted bird.  
  
America dropped his feet down and sat up, straightening his back. He put his hand on England’s shoulder, and secretly delighted in the way he jumped at the contact, and said, “I want you to visit me more, England.”   
  
England stayed silent.  
  
America tried to tell himself he didn’t feel desperate hysteria clenching around his heart. He pressed, “Okay?”  
  
England drew in an unsteady breath and let it out in a soft rush. He kept his eyes on the road ahead of them. But he whispered, “If I must.”   
  
America retracted his hand, and pretended that it wasn’t shaking. He grinned, to cover the way he suddenly felt too vulnerable, too raw and exposed.   
  
“Great!”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand,” America drawled out, leaning forward and staring at the approaching sign. England felt his expression wither into the epitome of utter disdain, but America wasn’t paying attention, naturally.  
  
He threw his hands up when they passed the sign.  
  
“We’re in California!”  
  
With a wicked grin he stared at England expectantly, as if anticipating England to mimic the gesture.  
  
England rolled his eyes, and said, dryly, “Woo.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
They spent the night in Northern California, this time with one room and two beds. They slept with their backs to each other, fingers curled desperately into their blankets so as not to move.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“L.A., L.A., you’re so a-okay!” America sang, loudly and off key. It was the next day and they continued their southern trek to L.A.  
  
“What the—what are you singing?”  
  
“I just made it up,” America said proudly.   
  
“You are utterly obnoxious,” England cursed. America was glad that they’d truly gotten back to a position in their relationship where England could bitch and insult him again. That was far better than the strange silence between them, where America feared that England’s heart was too cold and that America’s own would burst—  
  
No. No it wouldn’t.   
  
But it felt like—  
  
No. It wouldn’t break.   
  
“I’m awesome, you just don’t know what’s cool and fun,” America teased back, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and laughing when England slapped them away.  
  
“Stop that, I’m trying to focus.”  
  
“Pssshaw,” America scoffed and had the gall to stick out his tongue. He felt juvenile and loved it. “You sure you don’t want to do some kitchy tourist attraction? There’re a bunch of cool things in California, ya know.”  
  
“I do know and I’ve seen them before,” England told him, his lips thin. America studied his face, traced the shadows under England’s eyes, heavy bags—was he not sleeping well?  
  
“Awww,” America began.  
  
But England cut him off, “Don’t you even start with that.”  
  
America laughed, unsure what to say.   
  
“Hey,” he said, “Want to stop for today?”  
  
“We’ve barely gotten started,” England complained.  
  
America stared at the bags under his eyes, couldn’t shift up to look at those green eyes. He shrugged one shoulder. “I’m bored. I want a hotel with a pool again. Come on. You can take a nap and maybe then you won’t be so cranky.”  
  
“I beg your pardon—”  
  
“Cranky pants,” America reaffirmed with a sagely nod.  
  
England looked as if he was ready to pull over and throttle America.   
  
They got a room at the next hotel they came across.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
England woke up from a nap—he hadn’t meant to take it, told himself he could wait until the night, didn’t want to give America the satisfaction of being right—and stared at the ceiling. He sat up and moved towards the bathroom, washing his face and adjusting his appearance in the mirror. He ran his hands over his hair, patted his cheeks, and adjusted his tie. Only after he was done did he wonder why he was making himself look presentable for—it was America for God’s sake; his idea of dressing formally was to wear jeans with a belt.   
  
He blinked at his reflection, traced his face and turned away. He was starting to think things he didn’t want to start, the whispers of half-formed thoughts pressing against his skull.  
  
 _Maybe if I—  
  
If only he—  
  
Perhaps—  
  
No—_  
  
As he was exiting the bathroom, the front door of the hotel flew open and America entered the room, towel wrapped around his waist and dripping water all over the carpet floor.  
  
England’s lip curled back in distaste and he forced himself not to look directly at America.  
  
“You reek of the pool.”  
  
“Seeing as how I just came from there, it’d make sense,” America said, beaming at him and looking far too pleased and childlike.  
  
America grabbed the towel around his waist and lifted it to his head, to dry his hair. America’s face covered, England could stare openly at him. But he tried his hardest not to, his sleek chest, the way his swim trunks clung to his thighs, the— _he was nothing thinking about this._  
  
England turned away so he wouldn’t have to watch America drying himself off. His heart was clenched, throbbing painfully against his ribcage and he hated himself for this reaction. They’ve rejected each other. It was time to move on.   
  
“Gonna take a shower!” America called out behind him, and didn’t wait for England’s answer before shutting the door.   
  
England ripped off his tie, threw it into his bag.  
  
He stared out the window, listening to the running water and America’s loud singing, obnoxious and reverberating through the room, through England’s bones. England closed his eyes, resting his head against the window.  
  
It wasn’t fair.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
America came out of the bathroom after a long, steaming shower. He opened the door and steam billowed out into the room. Hair damp and water droplets curling down his neck and wetting his collar, he moved his way towards England, who was staring out the window. Or watching America’s approach in the reflection.   
  
“Wanna watch a movie?”  
  
“Not another horror, I do so hope,” England drawled, turning to face him.   
  
They stared at each other, not taking a step closer or farther away. But there were clear borders between them, a clear boundary that neither of them wanted to cross. They’d crossed so many lines already, lost so much so quickly and yet something still lingered.   
  
“Naw,” America agreed. “I want something dopey and stupid.”  
  
“So any movie your people have made, then.”   
  
“Something with explosions and cars and stuff!” America decided and bounded to one of the beds, jumping onto it with a grin and then patting the spot beside him for England to join him.   
  
Rolling his eyes, England followed.   
  
So began an hour and a half of explosions, guns, car chases, scantily clad women, and little to no dialogue. Just the way America liked it. England scoffed, but watched the movie if only for his snarky comments thrown in here and there that America mostly ignored.  
  
“Explosions and car crashes,” America said appreciatively, “All you ever need.”  
  
“Yes, because in the absence of plot, explosions would distract a typical American mind from realizing it has wasted its money,” England said with a disdainful sniff and crossing his arms.  
  
America dared to tear his gaze away from the television screen to stick his tongue out at England, almost pouting.   
  
“It’s a bunch of s—”  
  
America scooted over closer to England and elbowed him in the side. “Stop being such a jerk, England. Just watch the movie.”   
  
His words lacked bite. England glared anyway.   
  
“Hmph,” he scoffed, and neither acknowledged the fact that neither pulled away from the other. They leaned their shoulders together, watching the movie.   
  
The movie was coming to its close and England still wasn’t sure of the plot—and said so—and the hero had saved the day, and got the girl. She curled around him, smiling up at him before they seemed to mesh and shared a heated kiss that stretched on for far longer than England said was decent.  
  
“You know,” America said absently, observing the way the two bodies wrapped around each other, heatedly pressing their palms over the available skin. “I don’t understand why more movies don’t have friendship more than romance.”  
  
“Sex sells,” England replied without missing a beat.  
  
“But friendship’s important too, ya know?”  
  
“Some are,” England agreed. “Some friendships are more acquaintances or familiar relationships created under insignificant things. And others are merely for advantage in some way.”  
  
“… Love can be like that, too,” America protested. His brow furrowed. “Er, not love. But a romantic relationship.”  
  
England’s eyes flickered, and he looked up at America a moment before looking away.   
  
“Hm.”  
  
“But there are good friendships, too—the kind where it’s kinda like—oh god this is gonna sound sappy—” America paused, cleared his throat in preparation, and said, “Like the kind where two people support each other, where both souls are mingled and intertwined so much that they blend together and you can’t see where one starts and the other finishes.”   
  
England gawked at him. “That was incredibly—”  
  
“Sappy, I know,” America agreed with a nervous little laugh. “Blame Hollywood.”   
  
He fiddled with his hands, and looked over at England again.  
  
He swallowed, his throat feeling too thick to pass words through.  
  
“The kind of friendship where you—know you care about them, maybe not romantically but as something just as important and special.” He scratched the back of his neck, feeling self-conscious and exposed under England’s wide-eyed gaze. “Where you don’t even know _why_ it is, just that it is. If someone were to ask why you were friends and why you cared, all you could say was ‘because it’s him, and because it’s me’ because you can’t think of another way to express it.”   
  
England shook his head. “You’re quoting someone, aren’t you?”  
  
“Huh? Really?” America perked up. “Who?”  
  
“One of France’s people,” England said.  
  
America looked horror-stricken. “Oh god, no. Really?”  
  
“Really.”  
  
“Really?” America asked.  
  
“I already said really,” England muttered. He shook his head. “Montaigne. You wouldn’t have heard about him. He’s responsible for the essay form of writing.”  
  
“Ew,” America declared.  
  
England rolled his eyes.   
  
“That guy talked about stuff like that?”   
  
“Yes,” England said, prim.   
  
“Oh.” America looked down. “Guess he is the country of love for a reason. Guess that’d include friendship love, too.”  
  
“Platonic love is important,” England agreed.   
  
“I mean it, though,” America said quietly and his eyes flickered up to look at England.   
  
“To be honest, America, it doesn’t sound like platonic love you’re describing,” England balked. “You’ve been watching too many romances.”  
  
“I don’t watch romances, geez, England! Here I am bearing my soul and you just scoff at it!”  
  
“Tch,” England muttered with a disdainful sniff.  
  
“It can be… friendship.”  
  
England’s face was steadily heating up, eyes wide. The movie continued on without them in the background, two lovers intertwined before the scene changed to more explosions and minimal dialogue.  
  
“So… so it’s a special relat—friendship,” America said, growing more decisive as he went because England wasn’t laughing or looking insulted or amused—he was just looking at America, and America let him look. “It’s special. Don’t lump it in with other friendships that can’t even compare.”   
  
“America…” England began.  
  
“You know what I mean?” America said, voice hushed.  
  
England paused, bit his lip. Then offered him a strangely comforting smile, even if America had always thought smiles looked strange on England’s face. Perhaps because he was still used to scowls and anger. Still used to angry words splintering the night, remembering the way they used to fight and argue—once more violently than their now harmless bickering.   
  
“… Should I?” England murmured.  
  
“It’s how I feel about our… friendship,” America said slowly, feeling the blush creeping over the tips of his ears and working steadily across his face. “Cause we’re friends. Yeah.”   
  
“… I see…” England whispered, sounding far too quiet.  
  
America could feel him shaking. He turned to face him, and England was already looking up at him. America gripped England’s shoulders, held them tight. England did not push him away.   
  
He couldn’t say why, just that it’s the way it was. His friendship with England had always been special, he’d always known that. His bosses talked about it all the time, and America always believed them. Because of their shared history, because of their shared culture. Because of things like that. Because of that, his relationship with England was different from with everyone else. And America knew that it felt different and never questioned why.   
  
They were friends.  
  
Friends.   
  
They were…  
  
“America,” England said, letting out a small breath and looking at him. “It’s a completely ridiculous and overly glorified way to explain a—a friendship,” he said, stumbling over his words—why was he nervous?—“But… it’s suitable enough, I suppose.”  
  
“Yeah?” America asked, hands still on his shoulders.  
  
England nodded. “I suppose I know how it feels, too. In a manner of speaking. Only heaven knows why I’m… ah… fond of you, after all.”   
  
America grinned, felt his heart clench happily in his chest, before flopping contently down into his toes. This was the way it was supposed to be. To be honest, to have a good friendship. This is what he’d wanted all along, America decided. He wanted things to be normal. Normal was the best way to go. And things were slowly getting there. They’d left everything behind them, and with a little more convincing America was certain he would be able to move on, to ignore how he still was thinking of that night—  
  
He couldn’t describe the feeling—yet knew it, from the thousands of romantic comedies he refused to admit he watched. Feeling so happy over such simple words, wanting to spend all his time with one person, feeling as if there was no start and finish to the space between them, to be different—to be special—  
  
No.  
  
It was wrong.   
  
America knew it was wrong. He was wrong. It wasn’t normal, things weren’t the same. Things had changed and it was his fault—all his fault. And if he was honest with himself, truly, really honest, he would know that this wasn’t what he wanted, that he didn’t want for the way things ‘were’, nor the ways things had become ‘now’. He didn’t want any of that, if he was honest.   
  
He’d forced it into normalcy the last few days, but he knew it was wrong. He knew it was fake. Things weren’t normal, and things would never be ‘normal’ again. But perhaps there was a reason it was that way, perhaps there was a reason why that America wasn’t trying his hardest to create that normalcy. He did not want that normalcy.   
  
He couldn’t lie.  
  
He shouldn’t lie.  
  
If he was honest…  
  
The explosions continued in the background, and everything coherent in America’s mind exploded.   
  
England, looking up at him with soft eyes, slightly confused and curious and questioning. England, with a flushed face, with slightly parted lips, looking touched. Touched by America’s words—he knew that’s what the face must be; he can’t read expressions or situations at all, but he could tell England’s expression there.   
  
America’s mouth was dry, his heart was beating too quickly.   
  
_I love you._  
  
And just like that, everything exploded into existence again.   
  
He understood.   
  
He understood more than he could have possibly expected. If he was honest with himself—  
  
He was in love with England.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America is faced with a choice now, on what it is he should do. And what he hates more than anything is the indecision.

The problem with having epiphanies, America discovered, was that while the world was falling apart and exploding around him, time still moved forward. So with England smiling up at him and America’s mind running a mile a minute, the only sound for several moments was the sound of the movie playing behind them, momentarily forgotten.   
  
At length, England’s hesitant, lopsided, and out-of-place smile slipped from his face, upon seeing America’s stricken expression.   
  
“America?” he asked, and even he couldn’t hide his concern, though he attempted to.   
  
“… Erm,” America said intelligently, swallowing thickly and feeling too constricted. His heart hammered, and he knew his face was red. He tried to find words and found that they’d gummied themselves to the walls of his throat, stubbornly holding on and blocking any other words that might want to be said. So he sat in an awkward silence, shifting slightly, still staring down at England with the kind of expression reserved for a child who’d gotten caught hand in the cookie jar and being scolded for it by a mother who’d just spontaneously grown a second head. The image itself was amusing, but in that moment he was anything but amused—he was terrified.  
  
He loved England.   
  
He didn’t want to forget what happened back then, didn’t want to forget the words he said and the words that England said back, didn’t want to forget the way England smiled at him, touched him, slept with him. He didn’t want to brush it aside, to reject it, to call it a mistake because it hadn’t been a mistake—it’d been what he’d wanted, it was still what he wanted. He didn’t want to run away from it and pretend it didn’t exist, because it did. Of course it did. How could he ignore the way his heart beat so quickly around England, the way he always thought of England—for years, for centuries!—or the way he seemed to always find his way back to England, as if caught in his gravity?   
  
He didn’t want to forget.   
  
He wanted to remember, to be able to laugh and say ‘wow, I was dumb’ and sweep England into his arms and kiss him and make him remember, too, remember that this was what he wanted and maybe, just maybe, it was what England wanted, too.   
  
“America,” England said again, reminding America, once ago, that inner monologue did not mean that time stood still for him. England’s brow was furrowed, but America knew that he wasn’t angry, just worried. “What’s the matter with you?”  
  
“England,” America said, and couldn’t say anymore. The words caught, refused to budge. But there must have been something in his tone, because England stiffened up a little, lips thinning out and quirking downwards in a frown—he wanted to kiss that frown away.  
  
America leaned forward a little, just the barest of movements, moved to fill the space between them—why was there a space? There shouldn’t be a space—  
  
And—  
  
What was he doing?  
  
“Oh fuck me,” America cursed.  
  
England’s worried expression melted into one of alarm, then annoyance. “I beg your pardon?”  
  
“Shit,” America said, more to himself. His words were just little breaths in the silent room. An explosion went off on the television. His face was still close to England, still looking at him. His heart hammered. He was so close—  
  
But—  
  
England wasn’t responding, perhaps because he hadn’t realized what America was trying to do. Good. America recoiled, slipping off the bed abruptly.   
  
“I have to go to the bathroom!” he announced, loudly.   
  
England gave him a look, torn between frustration and amusement. He waved his hand dismissively. “Alright, alright,” he said, turning his attention back towards the movie, despite hating it. “Just go ahead and say so, next time. Oh look, I’ve missed several minutes of this ridiculous movie and yet I’ve missed nothing of worth. Hm.”  
  
America didn’t look back before he flung himself into the bathroom, nearly tripping over the discarded towel he’d used earlier. He shut and locked the door and stumbled to the mirror, staring at himself with such intensity that he was surprised the mirror didn’t crack or his reflection didn’t just wither and die.   
  
He studied his expression, assessed the corners of his heart as best he could, given that the bathroom was not the best place to do soul-searching (at least, not always; sometimes America had grand realizations while taking a shower, but that was hardly here or there).   
  
He loved England, but he wasn’t supposed to.   
  
Excusing the fact that they were _nations_ and had a duty to their people (if only they knew their nation was in love with the nation they’d fought to become independent from—damn, irony was a bitch). He knew there was more to himself than his nationhood—he’d had this discussion many, many times with many, many nations and his bosses—but that didn’t excuse that he had a duty, right?   
  
And… just what would people think? People walking down the street, if he had his arm around England, if he held England’s hand. As if in sympathy, the hand gripping the counter twitched. Holding England’s hand, being with England…   
  
He nearly smashed his face against the mirror in his frustration. Why the _fuck_ did it matter? Why did he feel this way so badly? How could he—  
  
America hated emotional crises.   
  
He hated that this bothered him so much—him, the United States of America, goddamn it. He wasn’t supposed to care what anyone thought, wasn’t supposed to let stupid stereotypes and stupid assumptions worry how he lived. He knew this. He knew this, deep down, but it didn’t keep him from feeling weird, from wiggling away from the idea of furthering his relationship with England—  
  
It was _already_ furthered. They were just pretending that it hadn’t.   
  
But he couldn’t reverse what had been done. He couldn’t.   
  
More important than worrying about what others thought, more important than realizing that he was in _love_ with England, was the stark realization that he’d—  
  
He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up so incredibly. He’d told England he didn’t want it, that he regretted. He’d gotten them both drunk (“drunk”) and taken advantage of the situation. He’d run away in the morning. He’d taken the cowardly approach to try and deny his feelings when he shouldn’t have. He’d fucked up—and he didn’t even know England’s feelings about it. England had been drunk, drunker than America, he was sure. That would have meant he’d taken advantage of England—he was—  
  
He’d gotten the person he loved drunk and slept with him that way. And then hadn’t had the balls to stay in the morning to make sure he was okay. He just left him. It was a good thing that England had accepted it, had been understanding. It was a good thing that England hadn’t hated him because of it. America should be thankful, thankful that despite everything England wanted to be his friend.  
  
His heart clenched. God, he really hated that feeling—maybe it would have been better if he’d remained oblivious, if he hadn’t figured it out. He’d fucked up, and now he and England would only be friends forever. And that, America decided, was for the better. He wouldn’t have to do anything about these feelings—maybe they would go away—  
  
Fuck, he was being a coward.   
  
But he didn’t just want him as a friend, not now. But he’d fucked up. Oh, how he’d fucked up. He couldn’t reverse or take back what he’d done. But he couldn’t move on, either.   
  
And he didn’t want to, yet did want to.   
  
He didn’t know what to do.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
America came out of the bathroom just in time to see the credits start playing, after remembering to flush the toilet (despite having spent the entire time in the bathroom staring at himself) and make it seem that his long absence was natural. England looked up from where he was watching the movie, a perpetual scowl etched into his face.   
  
“There were fifty-two explosions in that,” England said as greeting. “I counted. What utter trash.”   
  
God, he loved everything about him. What the hell was up with that? He was always grumpy, always criticizing, always working, always insulting him and the things he liked—why did he like him?  
  
 _Because it is him and because it is me._  
  
Fuck.  
  
“Oh,” America said, and such a reserved response caused England pause. He turned to look up at the other nation as he plopped down beside England. He must have looked miserable, because England flustered a bit.  
  
“Not that—it was a bad movie but—” he stuttered, and America realized that England was trying to apologize without apologizing. It was strange, to suddenly have a new perspective and understand the situation more, even if meanwhile his entire world was falling apart inside him and around him. England cleared his throat and America realized he’d missed a bit of his babble, “You didn’t miss much—it was another love scene, at the end.”   
  
America’s face colored. “Oh.”  
  
England looked vaguely uncomfortable, and mistook America’s red face. “Honestly, America. You aren’t that embarrassed about romance, are you?”  
  
“Nuh-uh,” America protested, blushing furiously because now he could only think of the way that England looked without his clothing, the way he’d arched and curved over America, the way he’d kissed America—  
  
God, stop thinking about it.   
  
“Are you feeling ill?” England asked, frowning. “You’re pale, and you were in there for a long time.”   
  
“Were you timing me?”   
  
England sputtered and looked away. “Fine, I won’t ask if you don’t want to tell me, idiot.”   
  
“Sorry,” America mumbled, and it still felt weird to say that word, but he was getting better at being humble in general and this entire epiphany business was more humbling than anything else he could think of in his current situation.   
  
England gave him a slightly strangled look.  
  
America mumbled, “I don’t feel good, I guess.”  
  
“Well,” England corrected. “You don’t feel well.”  
  
“I don’t feel well,” America said again, not bothering to protest England’s stodginess about the English language. England shifted uncomfortably when the typical pry didn’t come, so used to America’s insults and fighting back. He cleared his throat.   
  
“Then you should lie down,” England said, and pushed against America’s shoulders until he was lying on his back. England leaned down over him, examining his face with a thoughtful frown—and it looked too much like that night, with England’s face gentle and well-meaning, blocking the light and looking only at America. Only at—  
  
America’s breath caught, and with widened eyes he stared up at England. If England noticed, he ignored it, studying America’s face. A hand touched his forehead, checking for a fever, and America closed his eyes, his breath returning to him in a rush, in inconsistent, quiet little puffs. England’s touch was soft, warm—it sent electricity down his spine when he recalled the way England’s hands had moved over him that night. He opened his eyes. England’s expression was thoughtful, trained on only him. Like that night, with darkened eyes, parted lips, flushed face—looking only at America. Only at—  
  
America pushed England away slightly. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”  
  
He didn’t pull his hands away fast enough; they stayed pressed up against England, his palms pressed against his scratchy sweater vest and feeling his heartbeat beneath his chest. England brushed America’s hands away from him, when they lingered too long on his chest, and stood up and away. America almost called him back. England shook his head. “If you’re sure, then. Do you want anything?”  
  
 _I want so much._   
  
America stared at him. “Huh?”  
  
England rolled his eyes—those eyes, once darkened with lust, hooded, looking only at him—and asked, “Medicine, water, more blankets. Another movie? Is there anything that you want?”  
  
 _You. I want you—_  
  
“No,” America said, closing his eyes and rolling away so his back was to England. “There’s nothing I want. I’m fine. I should just sleep it off.”   
  
“… Alright,” England said softly and America glanced over his shoulder to watch England move to the light, turning it off. His head was slightly bowed, his body rigid yet strangely relaxed—was he always like that with him?—and his hand lingered on the switch a moment before dropping away with a light sigh.   
  
He’d fucked it up with England; he took advantage of him and then rejected him. And America didn’t even know of England’s feelings—to him, it must have just been sex. There was nothing between them, anything that could have been had been destroyed those nights before. In the darkness, America’s mind wandered. His night mind went wild with thoughts and beliefs. What could he possibly do?  
  
Did he even want it? Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps it wasn’t love at all. Perhaps he was confused. Surely he was confused. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t love him.   
  
He heard England shifting around in the darkness, unzipping a bag. He heard the rustle of clothing. America clenched his eyes shut, focusing on thinking about anything that wasn’t England. His mind was so busy not thinking (and failing), that he didn’t hear England approach until he felt a hand touch his shoulder.  
  
He jumped clear out of his skin. “Jesus Christ!”  
  
“Fuck!” England said, gasping in shock. He recoiled away as America sat up, eyes wide and his heart hammering. Before he could stop himself, he reached out for England and grabbed his elbow, steadying him.  
  
“Sorry!” America shouted.  
  
England stared at him and shrugged off America’s hand. “Relax, lad. Here.”  
  
He held out sleepwear to him. America stared at it a moment before England grew fed up with waiting and dropped it in his lap.   
  
“You should change before you go to sleep. You’ll be more comfortable.”   
  
He turned away and walked back to his bed, unzipping his own bag and pulling out clothes to change into. America watched after him, watched the way nimble fingers—fingers that threaded through his hair, stroked his cheek—undid his tie, watched the way his gentle hands—those hands that touched him—pulled off his vest.   
  
He was unbuttoning his shirt when he glanced over his shoulder and found America staring at him. His face screwed up into embarrassed annoyance. “What the hell, America?”  
  
“Huh?” America asked intelligently.   
  
“Get dressed, you twit,” England instructed, fingers working at the buttons of his shirt, stepping forward to press his foot against America’s shoulder, forcing him to turn away with gentle pressure. America obeyed the silent command, turning his face away, feeling color rise up over his neck, his cheeks, and settling quite comfortably on the tips of his ears.   
  
“Ah… yeah. Right,” America agreed and with shaking hands changed into his pajamas.   
  
His mind wandered again. Why was he acting this way? This was ridiculous. He shouldn’t feel this way about England, and the bridges were already burned. Perhaps if he kept it all to himself—would he be able to?—he would someday move on.   
  
His hands stilled on his belt. He frowned, and felt the ridiculous urge to cry that really, really didn’t help the situation. He didn’t want to move on.   
  
Oh god, he didn’t want to move on.   
  
“Goodnight,” England called from the other bed. America heard the rustling of blankets as England climbed into his own bed.  
  
America turned around to look at him, his expression stricken, though England could not see it in the darkness. He opened his mouth. “E-England…”  
  
“What?” England muttered into his pillow. “That movie didn’t scare you, did it?”   
  
“No,” America said abruptly, feeling his face heat up once again.   
  
“Then what is it?” England asked, and America listened to his voice, heard the concern there that the other nation tried to hide under the annoyance.  
  
“…Nothing,” America decided. He rolled over so his back was to England. “Night, ya old foogie.”   
  
“Hush,” he heard England mutter.   
  
America clenched his eyes shut, and felt his heart clench.   
  
He didn’t know what to do.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Damn it, pick up your phone!” America whined into his cell phone, listening to the phone ring. “Pick up, pick up, pick up—”  
  
Click. “Hi, I’m very sorry I’m not—”  
  
“DAMN IT!” America shouted and waited impatiently as Canada’s voicemail reached the end and the phone beeped. “Damn it, Canada, you’re my brother and brothers are supposed to always be there to pick up their stupid phone when their stupid brother is trying to call over a really stupid emotional crisis! You’re letting me down, man! Call me back! This is America, obviously!”   
  
He hung up the phone and flung it into his bag just in time for England to emerge from the bathroom after a shower. America tried his hardest not to look at him.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
America had been acting strangely all day. They continued their drive south, but America was quiet, and it was somehow unlike the way he’d been quiet before on their trip. He barely responded to the question the first time it was asked. He stared out the window, eyes distant and almost fearful, conflicted. Something was distressing him. England could feel the tension and the anxiety he felt, even if he didn’t voice it and England couldn’t even begin to understand why he was acting that way.   
  
“Twelve days,” England mused aloud to himself, and it felt strange for him to be the one to break the silence. He swallowed thickly.  
  
America was quiet, before replying, “Yeah.”  
  
 _A lot’s happened_ , they both thought but neither said.   
  
“Are you feeling better?” England asked, licking his lips and groping for something to say, something that could shake the uncustomary silence. They’d awoken about an hour ago, with little words, a small breakfast, and the continuation of their journey.   
  
America looked startled a moment. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. I feel fine.”   
  
“That’s fortunate, then,” England muttered.  
  
“I’ve just been… thinking,” America admitted.  
  
England was seized with the ridiculous urge to tease him, for some semblance of normalcy—to tell him ‘that’s a first’ or ‘don’t think too hard, your head can’t handle it’, but he didn’t. He couldn’t, not upon seeing such a quiet, conflicted expression on the usually boisterous boy. He’d learn to dread America’s ‘thinking’, however, and proceeded with caution.   
  
“… About?” England prompted when America said nothing but looked as if he had something to say.   
  
“Stuff,” America said, and it sounded lame even to his own ears.   
  
England frowned at him. America stared back at him, looking positively miserable. England’s frown deepened.  
  
“America…” England began. “What’s wrong?”   
  
“I…” America began, and then trailed off, looking down at his hands and sighing, deeply, his entire body tensed. He looked as if he was reaching a breaking point, barreling down towards a place that he wouldn’t be able to pull himself out of. England stared at him with quiet shock when America trailed off, pressed his hands to his face, and inhaled a deep, shaking breath.   
  
“America,” England said quietly, reaching out a hand and touching the boy’s shoulder, despite himself. He kept his hand there, squeezing his shoulder in what he hoped was reassurance.   
  
“What do you do when you realize you’ve mistaken something about something?” America asked him, voice quiet, voice muffled against his cupped hands. England wished he could see his face.  
  
England gave him a look that America did not see. “More questions? What are you on about?”  
  
“Like,” America said, licking his lips, finally turning to face him. He dropped his hands away, and they flopped uselessly into his lap, lying there. “If you were so sure about something, so sure that it was the case that it couldn’t be anyway else—and then you discover that it’s completely different from what you thought. What do you do?”  
  
“You’re being terribly vague,” England muttered. He took his hand back, and ignored the way that America’s eyes stayed on that hand, even after it’d returned to the steering wheel. “It depends entirely on the situation. So you were wrong about something? It happens more often than you’d think, or care to admit.”   
  
“What if, the way things are now—it’s kind of a problem?”   
  
“How can it be kind of a problem?” England asked.  
  
“Englaaaaaaaaaaaand,” America whined, looking positively desperate. “I’m being serious here. Help me. Please.”   
  
England sighed, looking at the road and wishing he could turn towards America. Under normal circumstances, he would be annoyed, but he sounded too unhappy, too lost. He couldn’t do much with vague questions, but he could do what he could. He didn’t know what America was getting at.   
  
“I would try to make do with the truth, then.” His voice grew quieter. His eyes hooded. His heart clenched—he tried so hard not to think about America, but it was no use. All he could do was think about him; maybe someday it would be better.  
  
But someday would never come. England knew that. He was just waiting for something that didn’t exist and yet couldn’t disappear.   
  
“But—” America began.   
  
“You asked what I would do and I’m telling you,” England snapped, and shoved his elbow into America’s side when the passenger drifted too close to him. America recoiled with a small ‘oof’ and said nothing more. England cleared his throat. “If I realized all this time that I was wrong about something, and knew for sure that the real truth wasn’t going to change—even if it was a problem—there’s no way to go around it; I would try my best to accept it.”  
  
He gripped the steering wheel tightly, to ignore the fact that his hands were shaking, that he didn’t want to accept the truth, to accept that everything was over now, that all hope was gone.  
  
“And… if you couldn’t?” America asked.  
  
England frowned, worrying for the first time if America was patronizing him. He was dense as a brick, there was no way that he could have discovered England’s true feelings. England had too much pride—he couldn’t just let it turn out like that. He refused to let America make fun of him.  
  
He glanced at the other nation, but America didn’t seem cocky, or self-satisfied, or amused. He just looked incredibly distressed and unsure. But, knowing, as England did, America’s skittishness and fear of intimate relations, it wouldn’t be farfetched for the stupid boy to be concerned over England liking him.   
  
But there was no way the idiot could have figured it out. It was in the past—shouldn’t they have moved on by now? It’d only been a few days, the little voice in the back of his head chimed, of course moving on was impossible this quickly, even for America.   
  
“England?” America asked.   
  
England frowned. “Couldn’t accept the truth?”  
  
“Yeah,” America said. “What if you wanted to change it, or fix it—but you didn’t know how?”  
  
England inhaled sharply, and hoped his voice sounded steady, “I suppose out of the people in the world… it would be you who would be unwilling to… accept.”  
  
“Um…”  
  
“Does it bother you that much?” England asked, feeling inexplicably annoyed.   
  
“I don’t like leaving things unsaid,” America said, scratching at his chin. “But I don’t… know. I mean. Hypothetically.”  
  
“Yes, hypothetically, of course.”  
  
“Hypothetically, that is, what if I was wrong about something and realized I was wrong at probably the shittiest time ever? What do I do then?”  
  
“What do you think you should do?”  
  
“I don’t know! That’s why I’m asking you.”  
  
“Well, I certainly don’t know either! How am I meant to know what you should or shouldn’t do? I’m not your keeper—that is, hypothetically. Hypothetically, I’d tell you to make your own decisions, to think it over and do what you needed to do.”   
  
“The way things are now…” America said softly. “I hate it.”  
  
England felt something flop uselessly in his chest. He almost closed his eyes, but instead focused on driving.   
  
“Is that so?”   
  
“Yeah,” America said.  
  
England sighed. “In a lot of ways… sometimes it can’t be helped. But don’t linger on it too much,” he said, and felt America’s eyes on him, “Eventually you’ll…” He shook his head. “Hypothetically, if you learned that you were mistaken about something and realized what the truth was, and the truth couldn’t change, no matter how much you wanted it to—it’s better to just accept it for what it is and move on, eventually. Eventually, all things pass, right?”  
  
He silently congratulated himself on such an answer, hoping it would throw America off whatever tangent he was going down. He couldn’t even be sure if America was asking about what he thought he was asking about—but England would be damned if he admitted to his feelings for America.   
  
But when he looked at America, he looked even more lost than before, even more overcome.   
  
He looked away from England, out the window. “Yeah… I guess you’re right.”  
  
He was quiet a moment.   
  
“Is that what you’d do?” America asked. “Just move on?”  
  
England felt his throat constrict. He gripped the steering wheel. He breathed in steadily, felt his heart return to normal.   
  
“Yes.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Hours pasted and America thought.  
  
If there was one thing America hated, it was indecision. He was used to knowing exactly what to do, all the time. He was used to having brilliant ideas that everyone else scoffed at just because they were jealous.   
  
What he hated was not knowing what to do, or where to go next. It was the worst feeling in the world, and what was worse was that England was _not_ helping.   
  
He had feelings for England. That was something he knew he wouldn’t be able to deny to himself, no matter what. He’d spent too long trying to convince himself that it wasn’t the case. And he knew it was a lie—even if he wished, beyond all measurement, that it wasn’t the case.  
  
Didn’t he? Didn’t he want it to not be true?  
  
It would cause too many problems, in the end. And besides, England didn’t feel the same way, he couldn’t. It was impossible. What’s more, America wasn’t, couldn’t, say anything about it.   
  
Perhaps it was as England said—perhaps, over time, he would be able to move on. He couldn’t deny his feelings now, but perhaps if he never acted on it, he would never have to face it, or deal with it. It could pass away, like everything else in the world, and they could move on.  
  
Move on.  
  
Like that’d worked before. Things were worse ever since he’d tried to ‘move on’.   
  
He watched the scenery shift outside and asked, abruptly, “Can we stop at the next scenic spot?”  
  
“How come?”   
  
“I just feel like it. I need to clear my head.”  
  
“Hm,” England said, and America took it for the affirmative.   
  
Sure enough, a few minutes later, England pulled the truck over onto the side of the road and America popped out, walking across the gravel lining the street and moving to the edge of the guardrail, hands in his pockets and the wind blowing back his hair. He looked out over the scenery for a long moment, expression distant and thoughtful.  
  
He heard crunching behind him and knew that England was joining him or, at the very least, stretching out his legs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw England arching, pushing his arms above his head and tilting his head back. His back arched and for a split second America was treated to the sight of a sliver of England’s flat belly. Quickly enough it was gone, which was just as well.   
  
America turned his face away in time for England to straighten himself. A few moments later the two nations were standing side by side, watching the world move around them. America kept his hands in his pockets because he was caught with the stupid thought of grasping England and pulling him close.  
  
“Something’s bothering you,” England said abruptly.  
  
America jumped. “What? No—!”  
  
England gave him a deadpanned look. “Don’t be stupid.”   
  
“Uh,” America said, intelligently so.  
  
England sighed. “I know something’s bothering you. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to tell me,” he said, and sounded almost saddened by this fact, so much in fact that America almost opened his mouth to prove him wrong before remembering it _was_ something he couldn’t tell England, “But you’re too easy to read, so there’s no point in hiding it. You’re easy enough to figure out, America.”   
  
America stared at him in silence for a grand total of ten seconds before the words sank in and he jolted backwards, skidding across the gravel until the backs of his knees hit the guardrail. Playing it cool, with a quiet little laugh, he sat down on the metal and grinned inanely up at England.   
  
Of course America was easy to read, especially for someone like England—  
  
Did that mean he—  
  
Could he possibly _know_? Could England know what America was thinking about, what was running through his head nonstop ever since the night before? It was agonizing him, it was grinding at him—it hadn’t started the night before, it’d been this _entire_ trip. Could England possibly know the secret he was trying to keep?  
  
“Um.”  
  
England stared at him, frowning. “What?”   
  
America lifted a hand, palm facing England, and hid his face. “Don’t read me!”   
  
England choked slightly, looking quite put out. “What are you doing?”  
  
America shook his other hand at England. “Don’t read me! Don’t figure me out!”   
  
“What on earth are you—?”  
  
“You aren’t allowed to read my mind, England! You stay out of there! You can’t—I don’t want you to read it! Okay, okay, something’s wrong, okay? But I can’t—I can’t say it right now, so don’t go snooping around and figuring it out for yourself or else I’ll—I’ll be really unhappy with you!” He waved his hand around dramatically, still covering his face and keeping his head bowed. He tried to inject England with a sense of urgency, his voice rising an octave in his excitement, “And you aren’t allowed to ask me weird questions that’ll make it obvious what’s wrong or—or to do your weird magic shit and stuff like that. You’re not allowed! If you’re my f—fr—friend, you’ll definitely not—!”  
  
England’s soft chuckle cut him off abruptly, and a warm hand gripped his wrist, pulling the hand away from his face. America peeked up to see England stooping slightly to meet his gaze, standing over the slumped America.   
  
“Alright, alright,” he said, and looked amused, if not a bit unsure. He gave America one of his strange, misplaced smiles, the kind that didn’t seem to fit on his face but never failed to send America’s heart plummeting down to his toes—and it did so now. England shook his head, “Goodness, America. I can’t read minds, contrary to what your ramblings may suggest. I meant you’re expressive.”   
  
“Oh,” America said, feeling foolish.  
  
England let go of America’s wrist and America wanted to reach out and grab him again. But England took a step back, shaking his head absently.   
  
“I can’t read you that well, in any case,” England said quietly, turning away and walking back towards where he’d been standing before, crossing his arms protectively over himself against the wind and looking out over the Californian landscape. “If you don’t want to tell me, I’m not going to force you.”  
  
“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” America protested.   
  
England closed his eyes and when he spoke he did not sound as if he believed America. “Of course.”   
  
“England—I’m serious.”  
  
“I know you are,” England breathed.  
  
America stood up and moved quickly over to England’s side, gripping his bicep. “I’m serious. Look at me!”  
  
England did as he was commanded, tilting his head up to look at America, one eyebrow raised.   
  
It was in that moment that America realized he still had no idea what he was doing.   
  
“Uh,” he said.  
  
He swallowed. Then he stepped forward and hugged England, wrapped his arms around his body and pulled him close, pressed up against him chest to chest. England made a small, strangled sound of surprised, but otherwise did not protest the invasion of space. In fact, he seemed to rest up against him, his chin cushioned on America’s shoulder. America refused to budge, refused to let go. At length, England sighed absently and America felt him hugging him back, lifting his hands and pressing them up against his spine. America barely repressed a shiver.   
  
The words bubbled in his throat, but he couldn’t say it. So instead he just said, “You mean a lot to me, England. No matter what.”   
  
“What mood are you into now, America?” England asked, and his voice was caught between deeper emotions and just sounding bemused.   
  
America tightened his hold on him, pressing his forehead against England’s shoulder and clenching his eyes shut. _I love you. I love you, you stupid, stupid old man. Why can’t I just tell you that?_   
  
“Nothing’s gotten into me. Just thought it’d been a while since our last heart-to-heart. We’re long overdue,” America said, boisterousness returning. America stuffed his insecurities underneath his bravado.   
  
England snorted. He patted America’s back. “Ah, of course.”  
  
“I mean it. I’m really glad I know you.”  
  
England squirmed against his hold, finally trying to pull away, uncomfortable with the sudden display of affection. A car zoomed by before America pulled away, but he kept his hands on England’s shoulders. England frowned at him.   
  
America offered him his loopy smile, for lack of anything else to do.   
  
This would be the end. He’d never say anything else after this.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Now it was a question of acting “normal.” This was something that, America quickly learned, was damned near impossible to do. The entire day had been spent with him being jumpy, unsure, and skittish. Undoubtedly England would have noticed. But he couldn’t act natural, couldn’t act as the way he had before he realized, before he understood, before he accepted. It was damned hard to start moving on when all he could do was act like a total spaz—  
  
 _Though to be fair,_ America thought logically, _It’ll probably take longer than a few hours to get over this all._  
  
He wanted it to be over with now. He hated waiting and feeling as if he could do nothing. This entire situation was completely out of hand.   
  
“Hey England?” America asked.  
  
“Yes?”   
  
America turned to face England, really studied his expression. In profile, England looked quite regal. His back always straight, his chin lifted, his green eyes trained forward. God, he really did like everything about him—even the annoying shit. He was screwed.   
  
“How do you know for sure if you’re sure about something?” America asked.  
  
England glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, lips quirked downwards in a frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”  
  
“It’s just a question,” America defended.   
  
“You’ve been asking a lot of those, lately,” England murmured.  
  
“Cause you’re the only one I can trust to answer these questions,” America said with great gravity.  
  
England’s shoulders tensed. “Oh.”  
  
His voice stayed quiet, and America leaned forward for more emphasis. “You believe me, right?”  
  
England drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. He scanned the road in front of them with quiet contemplation.  
  
The older nation frowned, and clicked on the blinker, moving to exit the highway. He pulled into a gas station and America’s eyes darted to the fuel gauge, where the little needle was pointing towards the ‘E’. England parked in front of a station and cut the ignition.  
  
“I don’t know,” England said at last, just as America opened his mouth to ask again. England unbuckled his seatbelt and turned away before he could be taken in by America’s stricken expression. America quickly shifted, hopped out of the car to cross over to the other side and fill the gas, as England wasn’t moving quickly enough. And he needed something to do with his hands, to keep them from shaking, to keep them from holding England again.  
  
He stood in front of the pump and reached to his back pocket, pulling out his wallet and swiping his credit card through the proffered slot. He fiddled with the gas pump and then opened England’s door so that he could keep talking to him, so he could look at him. The elder gave him another of his looks but didn’t protest, instead shifting in the seat so he was facing outwards, legs propped up on the open door, observing America over his crossed arms folded and leaning against one of his thighs. He watched America work and America tried his very best not to start blushing under the scrutiny.   
  
“It’s phallic,” America said because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.   
  
“Excuse me?” England asked, shifting up a bit in alarm.   
  
“Pumping gas,” America said, and wiggled the pump inside the truck. “The position and the motion and—ya know.” He thrust his hip slightly as emphasis.   
  
“What are—Fuck.” England closed his eyes, rubbing his temples, turning his face away. America didn’t miss the way his cheeks blushed a fiery pink, nor did he miss the way this stirred the smallest amount of hope in his chest. “You stress over making sure both beds look unmade in the morning, but then you thrust up against your truck in broad daylight. I do not understand you, America.”   
  
America smiled, lopsided, and said nothing. His joke had fallen flat, but at least he’d gotten a reaction out of England. He felt giddy, kind of hysterical. He didn’t know what to do. His insides were all aflutter.   
  
“I’m an enigma.”  
  
“Or a contradictory idiot,” England countered. “I haven’t decided which is the case yet.”   
  
“Contradictory, huh?” America mused, staring down at the gas pump. Yeah, he was contradictory. He was the absolute worst—he knew that now. He stepped away, moving towards England. England looked up at him, met his gaze evenly. America’s bones were shaking, but he tried to ignore that. “I’ve been thinking a lot, England.”   
  
“So you’ve said, but not about what,” England muttered, still looking up at him from his hunched position, curled into himself, protectively. His face was red.   
  
“Yeah…” America said slowly. He couldn’t think of other words to say, so he just stared down at England. He hated keeping secrets—he’d kept far too many this entire time, kept so many things from himself and from England. He’d fucked up so spectacularly, but perhaps he could fix it. Somehow.   
  
England rolled his eyes, thinking America was just acting like a fool.  
  
“I was thinking about you.” He let the words hang in the air.   
  
England choked. “ _What_?”  
  
“About you,” America repeated. He didn’t pull his eyes away. He knew this sounded like that time before—too much like that time, perhaps. England seemed to recoil slightly. America didn’t know what to do, couldn’t know. It was all too much, too confusing.   
  
“I heard that—I meant… I meant why,” England muttered, his face an even brighter red now.   
  
America took another step closer. England straightened slightly, pulled away just a little bit more.   
  
America took his arm, held his wrist between his fingertips firmly.   
  
“I don’t know,” America admitted, looking away for half a moment. His hold tightened. “I… I don’t know.”   
  
It was completely silent.  
  
England swallowed. “Oh.”  
  
“But…” America said, and seemed to not have an idea as to what to say, so he didn’t say anything after that. The words hung in the air, whispered ghosts of promises but nothing concrete. England’s knees shook.   
  
America stepped closer, one last time. He was in front of England, he was leaning down in front of England, his eyes were on England.   
  
His face was too close; his heart was going to burst.  
  
He was going to kiss him. England’s eyes fluttered, and hooded—like that time that seemed so long ago now—and he almost leaned in. But it was so slight, almost not there. And within the next moment, England was leaning away again. America moved to meet him.   
  
“Don’t,” England whispered— _Don’t do this if you’ll regret it._ He couldn’t get the rest of the words out.  
  
America froze, and seemed to remember himself.   
  
He grinned, and flicked England’s forehead, as if that had been what he’d planned on doing from the start. America was foolish enough even now not to realize just what he did to England, when he was close enough.   
  
England rubbed his forehead, glaring.  
  
“I’ll go get us some drinks!” America said and bounded from the truck as if the dogs of hell were on his heels. He had misunderstood—he’d been stupid, to think that England would want him like that, too.   
  
England almost called out to him, to demand explanations. Instead, he cradled the hand America almost held against his chest, and lifted his other hand to rub at the tender spot America had flicked, feeling as if it would bruise. He felt as if he had shattered to pieces.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
England’s hands were shaking, and he couldn’t get them to stop. He didn’t know what to do. He should leave it be, obviously. He should let what happened at the gas station fade away into obscurity, to file it away under the things They Did Not Talk About. He had to move on. He’d already given up—he wouldn’t let it happen again. Perhaps in a few years time he would be able to look at America without having to conceal his longing. Perhaps in a few years time he wouldn’t long for America at all.  
  
He refused to admit he was scared of what would happen if he were to open his mouth, to admit that it affected him. He’d already suffered so much dignity loss, he wasn’t sure if he could stand to lose even more. He had his pride.   
  
He struggled over this, but he knew that he couldn’t ignore it. Not now.   
  
“What the hell was that back there?” England demanded after ten minutes of relative silence.   
  
America choked on his drink and doubled over, hacking into his hand until he regained some kind of control and a wispy grasp on his dignity.  
  
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What was what?”  
  
“Don’t be cute,” England muttered, expression darkened and body hunched over the steering wheel. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”  
  
“I don’t,” America said, “besides—it was nothing.”   
  
“Christ,” England cursed, voice raising and almost cracking and it was in that instance that he realized just how much this was all bothering him. “Can’t you just be honest for once? ‘The only one you can trust’? You haven’t been honest with me since—since we—”  
  
He cut himself off.  
  
He swallowed.  
  
He yelled, surprising even himself by the volume of his words and hating himself when he wavered slightly, “You and I already had a fight about this—about being honest with each other but you’ve done nothing but lie ever since so why _won’t_ you just be honest with me?”  
  
“Because I can’t even be honest to myself, not about this!” America shouted back, rising to England’s bait. He, too, seemed surprised by the sudden outburst.   
  
England swiveled his head and glared at America.   
  
“Hey,” America shouted, “Watch the road—”  
  
“How am I meant to watch the road when I can’t—I can’t look away from you?” England asked, and then seemed to remember himself to add, “Because you’re so fucking stupid and—and—stupid.”   
  
“That’s all I am to you, huh? STUPID?” America shouted, face contorted in rage.  
  
“Yes!” England shouted. “You’re stupid—you’re blind—you don’t realize just what you—just what it is that you do— _You can’t be honest with yourself ‘about this’?_ Can’t be honest about _what_?”  
  
They glared at each other. They sped down the highway. The world around them blurred until there was only angry blue on angry green. They kept glaring.  
  
“If our ‘friendship’ is so damned important to you—you’d think you could at least be honest about things and not—and not just be a confusing, stupid boy—!”   
  
“It’s not—” America began, and then his attention was caught elsewhere. His eyes widened and he whipped his hand out, grasping the steering wheel between England’s hands and jerking it towards him. “ _For fuck’s sake would you look at the road when you’re driving?_ ”  
  
He shouted, and swerved out of the way in time for another car to whiz by, blaring its horn and not stopping. England slammed his foot down on the brake, stopping them along the shoulder with a lout screech. His eyes were wide, his knuckles white as he stared out the windshield.   
  
“FUCK!” America shouted, bewildered by the head-on collision they just narrowly avoided. The sudden braking hurled him forward and his knee slammed against the glove box. It throbbed in pain, but he ignored it. He turned to face England, releasing his hold on the steering wheel. England’s forehead was pressed against the steering wheel, his head bowed, his back and shoulders heaving and his entire body shaking. America couldn’t feel any sympathy. “What the hell is _wrong_ with you?”  
  
England didn’t rise to the bait right away, still too busy shaking. But when he did raise his head, his face was a deathly white, and shaking, he reached out and cut the ignition. The truck’s engine died and they sat in silence. England stared hollowly out the window, and America seethed.  
  
Inside, England felt everything boiling and churning, every little word he’d ever said to America, every little thing he’d ever done to or with or because of America. He couldn’t handle it, he felt too full. He’d filled up too much, too much on America and knew that America had not caught up, and didn’t want to catch up.  
  
He couldn’t be honest with him. How could he be around someone who wouldn’t be truthful? When, he suspected, the dishonesty directly affected him. He felt tears burning at the back of his eyes, but he refused to relent.   
  
He refused.   
  
“You want to get us into an accident or something? Christ.” America looked bewildered, scared almost.   
  
England threw the door open and stormed out.   
  
“Hey!” America shouted, quickly fumbling with his seatbelt in order to catch up with the quickly retreating nation. He hadn’t expected that reaction, not at all, and his heart lurched as England moved further and further away from him. He had no idea where in California he was, but abandoning their car on the side of the road wasn’t a good idea. Regardless of his reality, England was walking quite briskly down a hill, coiling his way between bushes and shrubbery. “Hey! Where the hell are you going?”  
  
“ _Away_ from you!” England shouted. “I’m going to a god damned airport and I am flying the fuck out of your god damned country and away from you! I don’t want to be around you—I—I can’t be around you, America!”   
  
“That’s not fair!”  
  
“What’s not fair?”  
  
“You can’t just _leave_!” America shouted. “We were talking before!”   
  
“I can do whatever the hell I want,” England shouted, walking quicker still. “We haven’t _talked_ in days—months—! We don’t talk, America—we don’t _communicate!_ ”   
  
“What?”  
  
“I don’t know anything that goes through your head and you most certainly don’t understand how I feel—you don’t _want_ to understand what I feel!” England snapped, turning around a moment to more properly shout at him, and saw that America was quickly coming closer. He turned around again and picked up his pace, moving quickly without actually running.   
  
“How the hell do you know that?”  
  
“Because I understand that much—you’ve made it more than clear!”   
  
“I—what?”   
  
“Leave me alone!”  
  
“England, wait!” America shouted. “What are you even talking about?”  
  
“Figure it out for yourself, you stupid, stupid fool!”   
  
“England!” America shouted, desperate. He quickened his pace, but England was moving faster, fueled by adrenaline and the desire to run away.   
  
“You don’t care—you don’t! I know this already, and it’s not like I care at all or anything! Don’t misunderstand! I just can’t stand to be near you any longer.”  
  
“England!” America shouted, “Shut up and listen, would you?”  
  
“There’s nothing to listen to.”   
  
“I meant what I said, before!” America protested, before he could stop himself.   
  
This caused England pause for half a second, and he looked over his shoulder at America, before quickly looking away and moving forward again.   
  
“I have no idea what you mean.”  
  
“What I said—!”  
  
“You’ve said many things, America,” England shouted over his shoulder.   
  
“But—!”  
  
“Just leave me be!”   
  
America stumbled, slightly, watching the way England stormed away. Already the truck was far off in the distance and America realized he’d forgotten to shut his door, much less lock the truck. He hoped the lights didn’t stay on and kill the battery, since it seemed England was content with running amuck in the wilderness like a great big fool.  
  
But England was more important than his truck. Much more important.   
  
America ran. He stretched out his hand, grabbed England’s shoulder, and jerked him back. England stumbled, whirled around to glare at him but he couldn’t hide the anger in his eyes, the way he glared straight at him with such distaste that it nearly floored America. But he’d come too far.  
  
England struggled against his hold, but America refused to let him go. America opened his mouth to speak in time for England to ball his hand into a fist and punch America’s cheek. The blow came as a surprise and with a quiet shout America fell away. America stumbled back, his glasses falling off and landing on the ground.  
  
“Shit!” America cursed, rubbing his cheek. “What the fuck—?”  
  
England stood near him, face contorted and darkened with rage. America stood up to his full height, trying to be intimidating and knowing he was failing with the way that England continued to glare at him and, in turn, intimidate America.  
  
America took a step towards him.  
  
“You stay the fuck away from me,” England commanded, his voice deadly quiet.  
  
America’s heart lurched, painfully, scared, but he refused to listen to his entire body screaming at him to back down. He reached out to grab England, to force him into submission.  
  
England’s fist curled again and shattered upward, in a stiff uppercut that caught America’s jaw and sending him spiraling backward. With a well-placed kick right to his side, America was quickly on the ground, a foot pressed on his chest and keeping him down.   
  
“Leave me the fuck alone, America.” And with that, he turned away.   
  
England was on the move again.  
  
America stayed there in shocked silence, staring at the fuzzy sky before he groped around for Texas and slipped the pair of glasses on. He cursed quietly and when he sat up, he already saw that England was making a fair amount of distance away.   
  
“ _Hey!_ ” he shouted after him. “ _England!_ ”   
  
England didn’t answer. In fact, his pace quickened.   
  
A lump formed in America’s throat. This was the time. He had to make his decision.   
  
If he let England go now, nothing would happen. They would end it on this, and he would never have to act on his feelings. He could pretend nothing happened; he could take it all back. He could move on.  
  
But he knew already what his choice would be. He’d known it all along.  
  
His head throbbed as he wobbled to his feet. He couldn’t let England go. He couldn’t keep everything to himself. That was the coward’s way. He’d fucked up, more times than he could count. He had to set things straight. He had to gather his courage, and surge forward. He couldn’t run away anymore.   
  
His chest swelled and he started walking, ignoring the pain in his knee from the smash against the glove box earlier. He ignored the pain in his head from hitting the ground, the pain in his jaw and cheek from England’s painful punches. He ignored it all because none of that mattered.  
  
“I’m a faster runner than you!” America shouted, and on that, pushed off with one foot and sprinted across the California wasteland, the wind in his hair, the air in his lungs rushing past, his hands curled into fists through his determination. He would not lose—he would not lose to his own insecurities and fears, he would not let England get away. He might fail—but he had to say what he had to say.  
  
He couldn’t keep silent and expect everything to stay the same.   
  
He couldn’t always get what he wanted—he knew this. But accepting defeat without even putting up a fight was not something America would ever be okay with, especially not with someone like England.   
  
He loved him. And England had to know.   
  
Even if that meant rejection.   
  
“England!” he shouted as he approached.   
  
England glanced over his shoulder and seemed rather taken aback from the speed America displayed as he quickly closed the distance. He turned around and started running, as quickly as he could.   
  
America, despite the horrible situation they now found themselves in, couldn’t help but grin.   
  
“I’ll catch you!” America promised with a shout.  
  
England glanced over his shoulder, glared, and quickly darted to the side. America hadn’t expected the evasive action and skidded slightly, stumbling over a bush before he rounded in that direction, following after England.   
  
It continued in such a manner, with America coming closer only for England to suddenly change his direction, slipping past America and just out of his reach. America was the faster runner, but England was more skilled. After years of hunting, he knew how the hunted should behave.   
  
“England!” he shouted, the grin long gone, lungs screaming, “Would you just stop and listen to me?”   
  
He saw it then, the slight flicker in England’s expression as he glanced back at America, calculating where to switch directions. Just as he darted off to the right America lunged, felt his ankle twist, and slammed his shoulder into England’s body. England stumbled.   
  
He reached out his hand and grabbed England’s elbow, steadying him before he could crash to the ground.   
  
The other nation struggled.   
  
“Stop being so damn ridiculous!” America shouted. “What are you doing, running around like an idiot? Would you just—stop struggling, damn it!”   
  
England was panting, winded, the slightest sheen of sweat on his forehead as he tried to get away from America, understanding that he was overreacting and beyond caring. All he wanted was to get away, to get away from this boy’s face. He couldn’t handle it.   
  
“England,” America said seriously, and tightened his hand on England when the other nation tried to pull away again.  
  
“Leave me the hell al—” England began, face turned away from him a moment before America forced England to look, expressions crumbling.   
  
“Please.” England ignored him. America said again, “Please.” Still, he struggled. America knew he was begging, but he didn’t care. “Please, just… if you’ll listen to me,” America said very quietly, and something in his tone must have struck a chord in England, because he fell silent, glaring without words at America. America drew in a shaky breath. “I have something really important to tell you.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm being honest right now."   
> "I know you are."

They stood in silence, in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in California, their eyes not leaving one another’s. The air was thick, dry. England’s mouth was dry. His feet were tethered, he couldn’t get away. He couldn’t look away from America’s eyes, painfully quiet. Or just pained. He couldn’t know. He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t understand.   
  
“I have something to tell you,” America said again after the silence stretched on for a long moment. He took a step forward but cringed in pain as he placed too much weight on his tweaked ankle. England told himself he wasn’t sympathetic.   
  
“… Then out with it,” England prompted, out of breath, the air in his lungs constricted and strangling him. He breathed deeply, harshly, greedily swallowing up air and trying to calm his racing insides, the fluttering feelings of adrenaline.   
  
America opened his mouth, worked it a few times as he collected his words, tried to say what he had to say. England, for half a second, felt something shift in his chest but he ignored it, told himself that wishful thinking never did anyone any good. He watched America swallow, and traced the line of his throat before he forced his eyes to look up at America again.   
  
“I was going to kiss you, back at the gas station,” America said seriously, because the true words he wanted to say wouldn’t come. He decided to work his way up, slowly, one revelation at a time, and his words were hushed and hesitant and he looked embarrassed, his face red and his hand shaking.  
  
“I’m _well_ aware of that, you imbecile,” England snapped, agitated and skittish.   
  
America cringed as England crossed his arms protectively over his chest and glared at America, his green eyes darkened and frustrated. He hunched a bit, curling into himself, defensive. He glared at America, unable to let his guard down for a moment.   
  
“I refuse to be a little plaything of yours,” England snapped.  
  
“… Huh?” America asked—startled.  
  
“Something with which you can do what you want and then cast aside whenever you grow bored.”  
  
America stared at him in confusion. “You think I…?”  
  
“You certainly haven’t given me any reason to think otherwise,” England snapped.   
  
“But I…” he started, and then stopped. He stared at England in confusion, blue eyes wide. “But you told me to stop.”   
  
“Of course I did,” England said with a scoff, his glare continuing, hiding the way his heart throbbed in pain. “I don’t want you to do things just because they come to you and you like to indulge in such ridiculousness. I don’t want you to do things and then later regret it—pretend it didn’t even _happen_.”  
  
America’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak.  
  
But England wasn’t done yet. He continued, his words catching in his throat, “We both know that—we both know…” He shook his head. “You might be able to easily forget things and act as if they’d never happened, for the sake of your whims—to use people however you damn well please. But I’m not so easily deluded.”   
  
“I’m not deluded,” America said quietly. His expression crumbled slightly.   
  
“You have to be, if you would do something like that—”  
  
“How does it make me deluded?” America asked, feeling annoyed that so easily his feelings were being dismissed, how difficult it was for him to express them at all in the first place. How frustrating it was, to have England be so sure of the truth when it was far from the truth. His heart quivered. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted but didn’t want to want. He needed, but needed not to need. How could this be the case? How could he—  
  
England stared at him, and America tried to read the expression beneath his anger. He couldn’t. England was too guarded, stepping away from him, his arms crossed and his body arched as if in pain. Perhaps there was nothing but anger, now. Perhaps it really was too late.  
  
“I’m not your toy,” England told him seriously. “You can’t—this isn’t how you’re meant to treat a… a friend.” His voice grew quiet on the last word, unresponsive and passive. Thrown in as an afterthought—as a correction. England looked as if he was going to say more. He just shook his head. He whispered, “A friend.”   
  
“But I—” _I want to give you more. I don’t want to be your friend._   
  
“You can’t tell me that friendship is the only thing you can give me, and then turn around to give me things that I _don’t_ need, America. I don’t need any of this—I don’t want any of this, if it means that you’ll just discard it once you’re done. You can’t call me a friend and then—”  
  
“I’m sorry!” America shouted, interrupted.  
  
England shook his head. “Do you even know why you’re apologizing? Do you even have _any_ idea what you’ve done?” England shook his head again. “I can’t do this anymore, America. I’m too tired of it. I cannot… I cannot give you what it is you want.”  
  
America looked stricken. “Wait—!”  
  
“I refuse,” England told him, seriously, his expression dark. “I refuse to be a means to rid you of your urges while you continue to deny everything and pretend it hadn’t existed at all. I’ve allowed it, admittedly. It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have let it come to this.”  
  
“I don’t—!”  
  
“I can’t return to the way things were before, America. I can’t be the ‘normal’ friend you want me to be.”  
  
“Would you fucking stop interrupting me already, goddamn it?” America shouted.   
  
England turned away, uncrossing his arms and walking away.   
  
“Wait, for fuck’s sake!” America shouted and stepped forward. He didn’t make it far before crying out in pain and crumbling to his knees, his ankle jolting in fiery pain. He grasped his ankle, curling into himself and hissing in pain, feeling the smallest beads of tears collecting in the corners of his eyes—frustrating, pain, pain, so much pain—  
  
It was so painful, to watch England walk away, to have England get him wrong and to know he was getting England wrong, that with every step they grew further and further apart—  
  
He didn’t want England to go away. He didn’t want him to misunderstand—  
  
How painful. How painful it was to know the one you love didn’t love you back—  
  
How painful, to know he was walking further and further away and he couldn’t catch up—  
  
He felt a hand touch his shoulder and he jolted his head up, staring at England with wide eyes. He blinked a few times, as if unsure whether to believe England had come back, but there he was. The guarded expression was still there, but now England seemed more concerned than angry.   
  
“You hurt yourself running around like a fool, didn’t you?” England asked, kneeling beside him. He seized America’s hand, pulling it away from his ankle with gentle force to get a look at it.   
  
“It’s because you can’t seem to run in a straight line,” America said, voice hushed and pained. “And you never stop, damn it.”   
  
England pulled America’s pant leg up a bit, examining the ankle. Already it was swelling. “You should go back to the truck, to get the pressure off it.”  
  
“I’m not going back there unless you’re coming back with me,” America vowed, his face contorted in pain and his anger. He grabbed England’s wrist when the older nation tried to retreat, tired to pull his arm away harshly. “I won’t let you get away from me anymore.” England stared at him, his green eyes widened a fraction before he tried, gently this time, to pry America’s hold off him. “England, just fucking listen to what I have to say!” America shouted. “Just _listen!_ ”   
  
The older nation paused, and something flickered in his eyes for half a second.  
  
“Haven’t you already said what you came to say?” England asked.  
  
“No,” America said. “I haven’t even begun to say anything.”  
  
England frowned and closed his eyes.  
  
America was tired of waiting. He uncurled from around himself and sat on his knees. England stood up, to try to pull his wrist away, but America refused to budge. With great effort, leaving as much weight as possible off his ankle, America stood up, facing England.  
  
“I…” his throat choked before the words could make their ways out, lodged in his throat and clawing their way back down to the pit of his stomach, where a block of ice was forming and drifting through his chest, leaving him cold.  
  
“You just don’t understand, do you?” England whispered, bowing his head.   
  
“You’re convinced I’m a dumbass anyway, so why don’t you just _tell_ me?”  
  
“You are an idiot,” England agreed, eyes on the ground. He’d stopped trying to get out of America’s grip. His hand went slack as America squeezed his wrist.   
  
“Then tell me,” America pleaded, and hated that he was pleading. “Just tell me. I already know I’ve fucked up big time, England. I’ve messed up. I have. I know I have. And I’ll do everything that I can to make it better, to make it up to you.”   
  
England closed his eyes and didn’t respond right away. America couldn’t read his expression.   
  
“Move on,” England told him.   
  
“Huh?” America asked.  
  
England opened his eyes, looking at him. The sadness there extinguished the fire in his eyes. He looked at America with such hopelessness that America tried to step forward before remembering his ankle and stopping abruptly. England looked away, off into the middle-distance.   
  
“Is it…” America paused. He waited until England’s eyes flickered back to him. “Am I hopeless? Am I too late?”   
  
England stared at him, trying to make sense of the words and refusing himself that small kindling of hope in his chest. He refused. He could only handle so much heartbreak.   
  
“Too late for what?”   
  
America froze, looking at him with wide eyes.  
  
He swallowed.  
  
“England, I—I know that I…”  
  
England said nothing when America trailed off.  
  
America cleared his throat.  
  
“I understand now, I understand a lot more than I did before.” He tried to shift his weight and cringed when he forgot about his ankle. It renewed its painful throbbing and he almost crumbled. England stepped forward, not looking at him, but holding his elbow, supporting him. America swallowed. “I realize all these things—it’s… I can’t stop thinking about it, and no matter how I try I know—I know that I won’t be able to move on. I won’t be able to forget. And most of all… most of all I…”  
  
He let go of England’s wrist and lifted the hand to his own face, pressing it to his face gently, fingers pushing under his glasses to press against his eyelids. He almost expected England to pull away with America’s guard down, but the hold on his elbow tightened and he heard the other nation shift closer with a sigh, the one supporting America now, the one making the contact and not pulling away.  
  
He pulled his hand away, blinking his eyes open to stare down at England, who stared up at him with a carefully guarded, yet curious, expression. He nodded his head, a signal for America to continue.  
  
“I fucked up badly—and I’m—I’m so sorry. I’ll… you have every right to be angry with me. To beat the shit outta me because I’m just… a huge dumbass. But I don’t want to forget. I lied before. I do remember everything. I do—I… I _do._ Really, England, I—”  
  
Still, England said nothing.  
  
Fear gripped America’s heart, the urge to run away returned. He ignored it. He would no longer be a coward. England had every right to reject him, to hate him forever. He should let England go, let England leave him if that was what he wanted. But he refused to let England go now, not without saying what he had to say, not without being honest.  
  
He closed his eyes again, inhaling sharply. His heart hammered in his chest and he licked his lips, tilting his chin down to look at England better when he opened his eyes.  
  
England was not moving. England said nothing.  
  
“I… I’m not supposed to love you, England. But I…” America whispered. He couldn’t say anything, but he knew he’d said enough. He’d incriminated himself.   
  
England’s eyes widened a fraction of an inch.  
  
America tried to swallow around the lump lodged stubbornly in his throat, his damn Puritanical sensibilities that prevented him from actually saying what he had to say. If he didn’t say it now, England would misunderstand and America would never be able to say it and England would smile that depressing, painful smile that he hated so much to see—that somehow was worse than seeing his anger.   
  
America swallowed. “But I… I do.”   
  
He’d said it. And now that it was out in the open, it felt as if everything had shifted, everything weighing down in his chest, clawing against his throat, evaporated in the air, free from him. Free from his heart, from his insecurities, from everything. He knew England had heard his words. He steeled himself for the rejection.   
  
There was no immediate reaction, and he watched England’s face for anything—any sign of revulsion or surprise… or anything. There was nothing right away, just the slightest further widening of eyes as he stared up into America’s face. Then, soon enough, America realized the hand on his elbow was shaking slightly.  
  
Then England took a step back, dropped his hand away from his elbow, and ducked his head. America made a soft noise of surprise, but had no time to say anything as England turned around and started walking away, his head still bowed.  
  
“W—wait!” America shouted. “England, come back! Don’t leave! Come back!”  
  
England didn’t answer, though he did stop a short ways away. He didn’t turn to look at America but he saw the hand lift to press to his face.  
  
“I know I’m an idiot,” America called out to him, refusing to back down. He wobbled on his one good foot, unsure if he should walk towards England—he didn’t want to make the other man start running again; this time, he wouldn’t be able to catch him if he let him get away. “I know I fucked up a lot and—and it probably didn’t mean anything to you. You keep telling me I should move on, to forget it. And I’ve tried—I’ve tried way too much England and I can’t anymore. I won’t be able to. Even if you don’t feel the same—I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you, no matter what. I’ve fucked up before, and I was a coward. But I’m a hero, and heroes take responsibility for what they’ve done.”  
  
England didn’t respond. He started walking again, and this time America realized his shoulders were heaving.   
  
“Don’t make me run again, England!” America called out but started walking, limping, his way over towards England. He quickened his pace, his heart thundering in his chest and the words, dislodged from his throat, rushing out of him in waves. “—I’d understand if you hated me. But I can’t keep it in anymore, I won’t. I have to tell you. I do.”   
  
England didn’t seem to be moving that quickly anymore, so America caught up to him, laying a hesitant hand on his shoulder. England froze, and America realized, belatedly, that England wasn’t crying, but laughing.  
  
His face was covered, and his muffled words were, “It’s impossible. It’s not possible. Of course you’d say something like this—something like this after I’ve already decided to—”  
  
“It’s not impossible!” America shouted, and forgot that England was so close until the older nation cringed at the volume of his voice.   
  
“You can’t,” England said.   
  
“I _do_ ,” America insisted.   
  
England dropped his hand away, the disbelieving laughter gone now, and stared at America with utmost seriousness. The sudden change in demeanor threw America off slightly, but England didn’t say anything right away.   
  
“I’ll say it as many times as I have to before you believe me,” America vowed.  
  
“You don’t have to do that,” England said, looking away.  
  
They stood in a stilled silence. America didn’t know what to do—he wasn’t sure what he’d expected after his confession, but now to be in the aftermath he was unprepared. England still said nothing, staring at the ground with wide eyes, expression twisted and stiffened up in shock.   
  
“I realized it and I… nothing changed. It felt just the same. Except that I think I… I understood more.” He licked his lips now. “I understand now.”   
  
England said nothing for a long moment.  
  
“Won’t you… say something?” America asked.  
  
“What would you have me say?”  
  
“I don’t know,” America admitted. He looked down, too, eyes hooded.   
  
They stood in silence.  
  
America knew what he wanted England to say—what he’d wanted all along. But things weren’t going the way they were meant to go, and he stayed in silence, finally lifting his gaze to stare at England’s profile as the other nation stared at the ground.   
  
“You aren’t just saying so,” England said at last.  
  
“Of course not,” America said, taken aback and feeling insulted by the not-question. “I wouldn’t… you know me, England. I wouldn’t just… say it without meaning it.”   
  
This time, England’s shoulders shook for another reason. America spotted the tears in the corner of England’s eye and reached out a hand, touching his shoulder.  
  
England brushed it off with a shake of his head.  
  
“Don’t, please.”   
  
“England…”  
  
“How can it possibly be like that? You’re… you.”   
  
“What is that supposed to mean?” America asked, insulted.  
  
England met his gaze, and held it firm. America refused to back down, staring into England’s face— _Believe me._  
  
The younger nation was in shambles. He’d fallen apart, he’d been blown apart. He’d put himself back together, but it was all wrong. There was so much he understood, so much he struggled to portray—and England was right there. Right there. Yet, so far away.   
  
“England,” America said when England didn’t speak right away. “Talk to me.”   
  
The older nation sighed, and then inhaled quickly, closing his eyes. He composed himself and opened his eyes again, staring at America. His eyes were glassy, but he was doing his best to restrain the tears. The sight was enough to force a rock in America’s own throat that wouldn’t budge, the familiar pressure of tears against the back of his own eyes. He blinked a few times.  
  
He should have been prepared, for the rejection. It’d been what he’d expected, but it in no way made it any less painful. It was painful, a one-sided love. To know that England didn’t feel the same, to know that his emotions would not be returned. As a hero, he should be able to grin and bear it, but America knew in the movies, the hero always got the love of his life. There was no preparation for heartbreak—and it was something America hadn’t felt in a long, long time. He should be used to people hating him, people not wanting him, people finding him annoying—but it was compounded, and so much worse, to think that, to England, he was nothing important.   
  
“Oh, hell,” England breathed, words failing him as well as he stared at America.  
  
“I’m being honest,” America told him, his voice pleading— _Believe me._  
  
“… I know,” England said quietly.   
  
America stared at him, silently pleaded with him, but if England could see what America was asking, he did not answer or respond. Instead, he just shook his head, absently, his face heavy with thoughts he wouldn’t share with America.   
  
“So I’ve… said what I needed to say,” America said quietly, when the silence stretched on.   
  
England nodded, absently.   
  
“Maybe if I… I don’t know. Don’t… uh. Don’t think about it or anything,” America said, England’s silent rejection having more of an effect on him than he’d care to admit, leaving him ice cold, shaking, and unsure. His words stuttered and trailed off. “I mean, uh. It’ll probably pass. Who knows… it could be… just a phase or something…” He trailed off, unable to lie. “No. No, it won’t go away. I know it won’t.”   
  
He stared at England, but still England said nothing.   
  
“England,” America said.  
  
England’s eyes flickered up. America held them steadily, feeling his back straighten and his hands curl into fists. He inhaled, and exhaled. His heart hammered, but he didn’t pause to think about how nervous he was.   
  
“It’s okay. I know you don’t feel the same.”   
  
England stared at him, looking startled. “You’re…”  
  
“I, uh. I don’t expect anything from you, or anything. I just… I don’t know what you want.”  
  
“I want…” England began, lifting his hand. He paused, however, and slowly the hand balled into a fist.   
  
America stared at it, waiting for him to throw the punch. He prepared himself, already feeling his jaw ache in pain over the earlier punch. He waited for the punch.   
  
It never came.   
  
“You…” England began, then trailed off. He shook his head, too. “You…”   
  
“What?” America asked. “What about me?”   
  
“If this is just a means to test out something—to try and relieve the battling thoughts in your mind—I won’t allow that to happen again, America. I refuse to let you tug me along on a leash as if I have no feelings or thoughts of my own—you want something one moment, then you backtrack and say you don’t want it. You say we’re friends and then you try to kiss me in public as if that doesn’t bother you at all. Don’t just stand there and say these things—don’t just… assume that I’ll be—”  
  
“I won’t do any of that again. I’m sorry. I’ll say that as many times as I have to, until you believe me. I fucked up. I know I did.”   
  
“You’ve already made it more than clear that the very idea repulses you.” England looked away. “Why would you kiss another man if you’re against the very idea of it? Why would you want to be with another man if it was something that disgusted you? How can you—when the idea of someone even thinking you’re not straight is enough to send you into a fit?”   
  
“Tha—that isn’t it!” America cried.   
  
“Isn’t it?” England leveled him with an angered stare, but America could see he was hurt underneath it. He wanted to touch his face, to smooth his thumbs across his cheekbones. He restrained himself.   
  
“I’m not repulsed by it! I don’t—it’s just—I don’t care what anybody else does I just… I don’t know. I don’t want to be made fun of or treated differently because of something like this.”  
  
“You’re the one treating it differently, first of all.” England was shaking. “And since when do you care what anyone thinks?”  
  
“That isn’t… I don’t,” America said lamely and perhaps for the first time, England truly realized that behind all his bravado, America very much did care what others thought of him and wanted them to like him. America shook slightly. “I just—I didn’t think it’d be something like this. It just takes some getting used to, ya know? I don’t—I didn’t think it’d be like this.”  
  
“Well it is.” He looked away again, not even realizing when his eyes had migrated back to looking at America—only America. Then England added, quietly, realizing he’d, somehow, already accepted America’s confession as the truth, “I suppose.”   
  
“Yeah,” America whispered.   
  
“… What do you intend to do about it?” England asked, after a long, hushed silence between the two of them.   
  
Dusk was creeping across the expanse of land. Night was falling.   
  
“I don’t know,” America cried, taking a step towards England and ignoring the urge to cringe. His hand touched England’s shoulder, and it stayed there now. “I just—I don’t know what to do. I feel weird, it feels weird. But I…”   
  
His other hand reached up to rest on England’s other shoulder. The other nation did not pull away.   
  
His heart hammered in his ears.   
  
England stared at him, expression guarded and yet still managing to be so open—so vulnerable.   
  
He was too conflicted. His chest hurt.  
  
He didn’t know what to do.  
  
He never knew what to do.   
  
“I know what I want. But I also… I don’t know what to do,” America confessed.  
  
England’s eyes flickered to look at him again. He stiffened slightly, unused to hearing America admit to not knowing something, to not have some master, heroic plan to concoct much to the chagrin of all his allies. He didn’t know how to respond to America’s honesty—he’d wanted it, oh how he’d wanted it. And now to have it, to have America openly admitting to his shortcomings, to his mistakes, to his feelings—  
  
England didn’t know what to do, either.   
  
England lifted his hands when America started to shake. He held him up, supported him. America leaned against his hold, taking the weight off his pained ankle. They stayed in silence. America tried to find his words, and England stayed silent in order to listen, waiting for America’s words, for his honesty.  
  
“It hurts,” America said at last.   
  
“… Your ankle?” England asked.  
  
“I guess,” America muttered. He hadn’t meant his ankle. His heart throbbed.  
  
“I’ll take you back to the truck,” England said, and sounded apologetic. He shifted, stepping away and brushing America’s hands off his shoulders. He moved up to America’s bad side, sliding his arm around America’s waist, hand on his hip. America closed his eyes, felt his heart race. England looked up at him, silently, before nudging America.  
  
America draped his arm over England’s shoulders.   
  
“Put all your weight on me,” England commanded.  
  
“But…”  
  
“I can handle it,” England cut him off gently. He turned his attention towards the truck in the distance, where the doors were left wide open from their hasty retreats. In the near darkness, it served as a silent beacon for the two of them. “I can handle your weight, America. It isn’t a burden.”  
  
America hesitated for a second before he did as was asked of him, slumping against England, leaning his entire weight on the nation. He half-expected England to at least crumble a little, for his knees to buckle, but he held on strong. He remained standing, back straight, and moved easily with America leaning against him, guiding him back towards the truck.   
  
“… Thanks,” America whispered, his breath soft in England’s ear.  
  
England nodded. “You worry too much sometimes, my lad.”   
  
They walked in silence for the long walk back towards the truck—only now did America realize just how much distance the two of them had put between themselves and the highway—and only struggled slightly moving up the rise back to the road, where the truck waited for them.   
  
“I hope no one stole our crap,” America said.  
  
“I don’t suppose you even have a first aid kit in your car,” England said, not acknowledging America’s statement.   
  
America shrugged. “I might? I don’t know. We can check under the seat.”   
  
They reached the truck, after a brief struggle up the hill towards the truck, and England shoved the passenger door the rest of the way open. He shifted, moving so America faced him, back to the seat, moving his arm from around America’s side—and how America missed his touch—only to grab his thighs.   
  
“Uh—” America began.  
  
But England ignored him, shoving the boy up and onto the seat, hands on his legs to steady him and make sure he was comfortable. He placed his hands on America’s hips, moving him so he was sitting back on the seat, his legs hanging out of the truck. England stood between his legs, eyes down as he steadily rolled up America’s pant leg, surveying the swollen ankle.   
  
“England…”  
  
“Shush,” England commanded, untying America’s shoelace and slowly, so very slowly, pulling the shoe off for him. His free hand gripped the bottom of his shin, as a means to steady the ankle. He removed the sock in the same way.   
  
He stepped back and America almost reached out his hand to draw him back. He restrained himself and watched as England ducked down, resting one arm on the floor mat and the other gripping the seat cushion, so close to America’s leg, and searching under the seats for any signs of a first aid kit. America watched him as he worked, the way his hair fell over his face, the way his back curved and arched. His heart throbbed again.   
  
“Anything?” America asked, his voice hushed and breathless.  
  
England retreated, straightened, and shook his head. His hand shifted up off the seat cushion, patting America on the hip.   
  
“I can search the bags, for something that we can use as a makeshift bandage for now. It’d be best if you had some ice, but that’s out of the question here.”   
  
England took a step away, drawing his hand away from America’s hip. America grabbed England’s hand before he could get away. The other nation stared at him in surprise, blinked once.  
  
“Wait,” America whispered.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I still have things I need to say,” America told him.   
  
England frowned at him. “Ah… of course.”   
  
“I’m… I’m going to be honest.”   
  
“Please,” England said with a nod, closing his eyes a moment.   
  
America swallowed. “So… trust me.”  
  
England inhaled. Then he exhaled. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.  
  
“Is that… too much to ask for, now?” America asked.  
  
England shook his head. “I’ll do what I can.”   
  
He shifted closer, not pulling his hand away from America. America felt his heart lodge in his throat, but refused to indulge in the smallest glimmer of hope he felt bubbling in his chest, the small amount of dread he felt. He wanted England to feel the same way about him—more than anything, he wanted England near him, always. It was a feeling he would never be rid of, that he was sure of. He wanted England—he wanted to be with England. And yet—  
  
And yet—  
  
The words caught, once again, in America’s throat. He choked slightly, felt his expression crumble to mimic England’s own—saddened eyes, slackened lips, eyebrows slanted away from one another. He knew his cheeks were red.   
  
America leaned towards him, they were already so close though, and lifted a hand, touched England’s cheek. His thumb pressed along the red blush there, the pad thumbing across soft skin. England’s eyes were on him, opened and blinking slowly as he peered up at him. He knew that America’s eyes must mimic England’s own—uncertain and vulnerable. America wasn’t used to this—  
  
He was terrible with words, he realized, not for the first time, as he tried to collect them in the scrambled remains of his brains. England had promised silence, had promised to listen. And now he struggled to find the things to which England was meant to listen. He was terrible with words, never knew what to say or how to say it—it always came out in a mess, or he relied on things other than words to relay his feelings. Conveying feelings through a look, through a nudge of an elbow, through a laugh or a snort or—or anything. Anything but—  
  
“I haven’t forgotten—that night. I wasn’t drunk.”  
  
England looked as if he were about to speak, but remembered himself and closed his mouth.   
  
“I was kinda tipsy, at least. I dunno. I dunno what I was thinking then—” he swallowed, worked his mouth around the words and stumbled. “I—I thought, hey, if I just do this and get it outta my system, I’ll stop thinking like this about England.” He fidgeted. “Cause I kept thinking about you. I can’t stop it even now.”  
  
England looked disbelieving, green eyes closing off and looking away. America moved both his hands and pushed his palms against England’s cheeks until his face puckered up, lips parted like a fish’s.  
  
“Listen to me!” he demanded.  
  
England glared and squirmed against America’s hold, and he slackened the force of his hold, though did not remove his hands. They rested, his palms, slightly sweaty, against England’s bright red cheeks. England did not recoil, but he didn’t exactly lean into the touch.   
  
At least the vulnerable look was gone.   
  
“I got you drunk. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I took advantage of you—I was a huge, disgusting coward. I pretended to be drunk and got you drunk just so I could try to get shit out of my system. I used you. I shouldn’t have. I did use you—like a toy. But you aren’t. Fuck, England, that isn’t what I wanted. I’m a huge fucking douchebag and I’m… I’m…”  
  
England looked as if he was about to say something.  
  
America couldn’t stand to hear his disgust, to hear his agreement. He said, “And then that night happened and it—it got worse.”  
  
England’s eyes flickered.  
  
America backtracked. “I mean—I couldn’t stop. I kept thinking about you. I said it was a mistake and I—you said I’d leave the room like you were a whore or something. I just… fuck. _Fuck._ I just _left_ you alone. You said I’d leave you even after I said I wouldn’t—and I—I’m so… And you were right. You know me too well.”  
  
 _I don’t know you at all,_ they both thought at the same moment, looking up at each other. _Not as much as I want to._  
  
“I wasn’t drunk,” England breathed.  
  
America froze. “Wha—”  
  
“I wasn’t drunk,” England said again. “You didn’t force me to do anything.”   
  
“Oh… fuck,” America hissed, clenching his eyes shut. His hands fell away from England’s face and he covered his own face, bowing into himself. “Fuck me. Just… fuck me.”  
  
“I knew you would regret it, America. I knew from the start what you were trying to do and I—I let you, anyway.”  
  
“But _why?_ ” America asked, looking stricken before pressing his hands to his face again.  
  
England didn’t answer. He lifted one hand and stroked America’s hair, keeping his touch soft. He knew, in that instant, that England was comforting him and that was just not right, it couldn’t be right—  
  
He was the one to take advantage of England, to use him and then cast him aside. He was the one who left England confused, and burdened him and annoyed him and pissed him off. He couldn’t stand the idea of England pitying him, of hating him, of anything. He wanted England to love him, to love him just as much as America loved him.   
  
“Stop,” America whispered.  
  
The hand stilled and fell away.  
  
America shook his head, lifting his gaze. “Don’t comfort me—I’m the one that… I’m the one that does all that shit to you and then. God, why aren’t you angry?”  
  
“I am angry,” England said, calmly.   
  
America started.  
  
“But not only at you,” England said, voice quiet. “I’d expected as much to happen, America. I let it happen regardless. I said nothing. I… am far too used to things like this. I should be used to it to the point where it doesn’t hurt anymore.”  
  
“England—”  
  
“Don’t you… understand?” England asked, flickering his eyes up at America again. America squirmed in his seat, wanting to fly down to England’s level, hating how close he was and yet how far away he’d become. England patted his knee. “No,” he said quietly, “Of course you don’t.”  
  
“England—”  
  
England nodded. “I know. I know, my lad.”   
  
“I want to set things right. I’m being honest right now.”  
  
“I know you are.”  
  
“I mean everything I say.”  
  
“I know you do.”  
  
“So, please listen.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
America licked his lips. “I don’t—I don’t want to forget, England.”   
  
“America,” England whispered, unable to keep name from his lips, the slight hitch in his breath, the way his eyes threatened tears. America touched his face again and England ducked his head away with a shake of his head.   
  
“I… I’m so sorry.”  
  
“It’s not like you, to apologize so much,” England whispered, shaking his head.  
  
“I—”  
  
“I know you’re being honest, America. You’re… I know you are. You’ve hurt yourself running after me. And you…” He looked up, again, suddenly, studying his face. “You never could act that well. You’re really… truly… truly, such an idiot…”   
  
“Hey…” America protested, weakly.   
  
“So don’t apologize anymore,” England said. He sucked in a sharp breath. “Because I’m… I’m sorry as well.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
England shook his head. “We’ve both… done things.”   
  
“But…”  
  
“So it’s alright,” England said. “You’re trying to fix things now, aren’t you? Mr. Hero.”   
  
“Yeah,” America said, voice weak.   
  
“How’s your foot?” England asked, abruptly.  
  
“That’s not important right now,” America said seriously, eyebrows slanting together. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, staring at his companion. “England.”  
  
England sighed, and met his gaze. “Don’t be ridiculous. What if you’ve gone and broken something like the fool you are?”  
  
He touched America’s leg, hand straying over his knee and slipping down, pushing his pant leg back up again and gripping his calf. America’s breath stilled. He shifted, planting his hands behind him so he could lean back, try to get the distance between himself and England, so he wouldn’t fall forward to England, to take him in his arms. He breathed in deeply, tilting his head back to the roof and ignoring the feel of England’s hands on him, the touch of his fingers slipping over his leg, over his knee, and brushing, ever so slightly and ever so briefly, over the barest whisper of his inner thigh as he tucked his jeans under his knee.   
  
And then the pleasure of England’s touch evaporated when one hand gripped his foot and turned it in his hand, testing the range of motion. He hissed in sudden pain, jolting up and shouting out a loud curse. “ _Fuck!_ ”  
  
The hand on his calf shifted, stroking his skin in apology. “It’s to see how bad it is, America. It won’t take long.”  
  
“Fuuuuuck,” America said, trying to pull his leg from England’s touch. England turned it the other way, trying to keep his touch gentle. It didn’t hurt as much this time until it reached a certain point, and then America jolted again with another strangled shout. “Fucking shit, England—stop that!”   
  
“It’s only a light sprain, it seems,” England said at last, and mercifully released his hold on America’s foot.  
  
“Light sprain my ass, motherfucker,” America cursed, retreating and holding his ankle with both hands to protect them. “Shit!”   
  
England shifted forward, eyes hooded. He covered America’s hands with his own, covering and keeping them there. America fell silent, staring in confusion. England didn’t do anything for a long moment before shifting, looking up at him. When he spoke, his voice was hushed and heavy, and America knew he was speaking on more than just his ankle: “I’m sorry, America.”   
  
“I… well…” America trailed off, still feeling annoyed but feeling the blatant anger evaporate along with the sharp jolts of pain. The throbbing in his ankle echoed faintly through his leg, but it felt distant.   
  
America shifted.   
  
“Uh, thanks.”  
  
“Of course,” England said. “Shall I go see if there’s something we can use to wrap your ankle up now?”   
  
“No… wait,” America whispered.  
  
England paused, stepping back close to America again.   
  
“You keep interrupting me, damn you. There’s… I still need to… I have things I need to say.”  
  
“What else is there to say?”   
  
“That’s…”   
  
“I know you’re sorry… we’ve both made mistakes. You’ve gone and sprained your ankle like a true twit. And you—”  
  
“There’s still a lot left to say!” America said. “I want—”  
  
“Whether you have feelings for me or not,” England said calmly, “You don’t like the idea of being with someone who isn’t a woman. You understand this, America. As do I.”   
  
“That isn’t—shut up!”  
  
England raised one eyebrow at him. “Isn’t that what you were going to tell me?”  
  
America grabbed his shoulders. “You aren’t—I don’t know. You’re—”  
  
“I’m… what exactly?” England breathed, and allowed America to drag him close. He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop the way his heart swelled, the way the feelings of hope and insecurity bubbled in the pit of his stomach and he couldn’t deny it. He just couldn’t.   
  
“To me… you are…”   
  
America leaned in close, and this time England did not recoil, this time, he did not tell him to stop. He just watched him, waiting to see what he would do. His breath caught in his throat, his eyebrows slanted away from one another—and in the darkness, where the only light was the soft bathing of the truck’s light behind America’s head, he looked far too vulnerable, far too much like before.   
  
America swallowed, but did not relent, tried not to focus on the look in England’s eyes. His mouth was just inches away from England’s. He could feel him breathing. His eyes sank to half-mast and he stared at England, who wasn’t watching him but seeming to look right through him and his eyes were on his lips, his eyelids fluttering a moment.   
  
He leaned in, he was so close. He could, he—  
  
“Jesus,” America gasped out and had to turn his face away the same time that England recoiled away from him. America’s head sank, and he rested his forehead on England’s shoulders, hands falling away to grip his hips. “Fuck. What am I thinking?”   
  
In the silence that followed, England wondered if America heard his heart break yet again.   
  
“My dear l—” England choked on the last word, and the ‘dear’ stayed in the air like a promise. Despite the fumble, England’s voice soothed gently, and the gentleness of which he spoke was unnerving and disarming to America. He’d expected anger, but it seemed to have all drained away. England lifted his hands, touching the back of America’s head, a gentle comfort that only broke America’s heart and resolve. How could he be like this, how could he be so understanding when he was being so fucking stupid? “You so rarely think.”   
  
A rush of cold surged through America’s veins. He shivered. He couldn’t handle this—he couldn’t. It was too much, and not enough. He wanted to keep England in his arms but also run away. He wanted to kiss England but also avoid those lips.   
  
England’s resignation was worse than his anger.  
  
His smile was too sad.   
  
“I just… I mean I… I just don’t know what to do because I feel this way but when I think about it for too long I just remember all those things that people say and… and I dunno. My conservatives…”   
  
England gave him a slightly strangled look.  
  
America coughed discreetly off to his right, expression bright red and eyes down.  
  
Then he turned back to look at the other nation, frowning. “I just—it’s not something I ever expected. I mean, excluding the fact we’re nations and going out with normal humans would be difficult—being kinda immortal or whatever the hell we are—I always figured that if I was with someone, it would be for political reasons.” He hesitated, then added, “Or, ya know, a girl.”   
  
England looked away.  
  
America forced him to look again.   
  
“I just—I’m not used to it.” He shifted his hands so his fingers curled into the wispy strands of England’s hair. “I don’t understand because I feel this way and when I realized what it probably was—um—yeah—I… nothing changed. I realized this and it was exactly the same, ya know?”  
  
England let out a long rush of air, sagging under America’s hold, seeming to sink into the darkness of the California night.   
  
“How long?” he asked.  
  
“What?”  
  
“How long have you felt ‘this way’?” he whispered.   
  
America shook his head. “A long time. I just was a fucking dumbass and didn’t even realize. The—friendship thing. Or something. The feeling like you can’t—uh—nevermind, don’t make me say it again. It’s too sappy and dumb and shit—but it’s what it feels like. And I’ve thought you were a… a good friend for a while now. And before then, I…”  
  
“Tell me,” England requested again. “How long?”   
  
America spoke, and realized as the words passed his mouth, that was really, truly the way it was. This was the truth. He’d always—  
  
“I’ve always felt this way.”   
  
They stared at one another, letting that confession hang in the air. England was quaking beneath his touch.   
  
“I just… didn’t realize.”   
  
“You so rarely do,” England murmured.   
  
“But I don’t know what to do—because if it’s the truth that—” he swallowed. “I can’t help but feel weird about it. Not because I think it’s wrong—I’d feel strange doing something like this with a woman, too, I think. I just didn’t think that, ya know, I’d be with someone and… uh, not to say we’re gonna be together. Cause you don’t feel the same way. Uh. Assuming shit again, way to go, me. Just. You know, I… Caring about someone—I didn’t expect to feel like I loved someone unless it was my own people or something. Having someone be ‘special’ to me… I didn’t expect it. But I… I’m…”  
  
“You’re having an emotional crisis.”  
  
“Fuck, yes,” America groaned, clenching his eyes shut and gritting his teeth. “I don’t know what to _do_ , England. I’m conflicted. I feel like I’m being torn clean in two here, and it’s not supposed to be a big deal, fuck!”   
  
“America,” England soothed gently, looking surprisingly calm given the situation. “You cannot make everyone happy. You have to do what you think is right, and some people will agree with you and others won’t. It’s impossible to make all your people happy, impossible to make every single person happy.”   
  
“I know that… but…”  
  
“Do what you think is right, what you want to do. Not what is expected of you. There is absolutely no weakness in having someone be precious to you.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“There _isn’t_ ,” England commanded, face tight and confident as he spoke. “Having someone be important to you—to love someone—that doesn’t make you weak. Having someone see you vulnerable, having someone care for you no matter what… how could that be weakness? It takes courage, to be with someone. So, do what makes you happy. Do what you want to do, not what is expected of you.”   
  
“… Is that what you do?”  
  
England looked taken aback.  
  
“Are you doing what you want to do? What makes you happy?”  
  
England stared at him, his breath caught. Then slowly, he shrugged one shoulder. “That’s not important right now.”   
  
“But…”  
  
“But nothing,” the other interrupted with a small sigh and a shake of his head. “You have to choose for you, not for what you think will make your people happy or your government or anything. You are more than what you represent.” He pressed a hand to America’s chest, patting just above his heart before dropping his hand away. “Pursue your own happiness.”   
  
“… ‘And the pursuit of happiness’, huh?” America asked, and shifted uneasily.  
  
Something flickered in England’s eyes. “Indeed.”   
  
“I… how can I follow your advice when you don’t even do it for yourself?”  
  
“I have no idea what you mean.”  
  
“Are you happy right now?”  
  
England stared at him. Then, very quietly, he said, “No.”  
  
“Exactly.”   
  
“Following what I want is… I’m…”  
  
“You’re the one that said that… that no one ever choked when swallowing their pride.” He grabbed England’s hand, held it tight. “England. Don’t… don’t hold it in anymore. Answer me. I… I… that is.”   
  
He cleared his throat.  
  
England stared at him.  
  
America, very quietly, whispered, “I love you.”  
  
“… I know you do, America,” England murmured after a stilled silence. He lifted a hand, touched America’s jaw, where the bruise from his punch was already blooming across America’s face. He stared into America’s eyes, saw something there that made him shift, and blink rapidly for a few moments. He sucked in a deep breath, his fingers splayed across America’s cheek. He whispered, “I know you do.”  
  
“You believe me, don’t you?”  
  
England closed his eyes, and gave the boy the slightest of watery smiles. “I do.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“But I also know this is hard for you. You don’t… can’t be with me.” He let the words hang, but America missed it completely—missed the fact that he wasn’t being rejected.   
  
“It isn’t that I don’t want it,” America protested. “I… I don’t know.”   
  
There was a long, heavy silence. America bit his lip, torn. He pulled his hands away.   
  
“I’ve told you everything I was going to say,” he said at length. “I’ve… been honest.”   
  
England was silent for a long moment, so long that America was certain that England wasn’t going to say anything at all. But, presently, England inhaled sharply and took a step forward, close to him but looking uneasy.   
  
“No matter what you say now, England,” America said very quietly. “It won’t change how I feel. I’ll still—I’ll feel this way, no matter what you say. So don’t…”   
  
“Then,” England whispered, cutting America off. “I’ll be honest, as well. I haven’t…anything left to lose.”   
  
“Yeah,” America agreed.   
  
“America understand that—I’m—I want—” it seemed the words were caught in England’s throat, and he choked up before looking away, his face crumbling. He cleared his throat, tried to usher in a semblance of control, of nonchalance. It was so thin even America could recognize it for the farce it was. “You are…” England whispered, his words stuttering, stealing away America’s words before he could think to say them. England shifted his eyes up to America and it was only then that America realized that England hadn’t been looking up at him until that moment. “I’m so… sometimes it’s impossible to breathe, when I look at you.”   
  
They stared at one another.  
  
England dropped his eyes away. “It’s impossible sometimes, because it just… I want you so badly at times.”   
  
That hadn’t been what America had expected—somehow, somehow he hadn’t expected that at all. He’d expected disgust, dismissal, proclamations of America’s stupidity, delusions, contradictions, selfishness. Mostly, he’d expected a quiet, apologetic rejection. His mouth flopped open momentarily, in his shock, before he whispered, “I never realized.”   
  
The older nation looked amused a moment, shaking his head absently. “I didn’t intend for you to notice. And your head’s always too far up in the clouds to have noticed anything like that. You’re too busy looking at the stars, or playing the hero. Thinking about yourself. Why would you notice something you don’t wish to see?”   
  
“I never… I didn’t…” America said and hated how his words failed, hated how passive and foolish he felt and looked.   
  
“The things I said… while I was drunk,” England offered, still not looking at him. “Perhaps I hadn’t said it in the way I would have hoped. But I said what I said, and I meant it, as well.” He glanced up at America, and actually smiled. America was floored, staring at that smile, painfully resigned and calm. Gentle. “I didn’t intend for you to know, especially if you’d react like this. I don’t want for you to feel ashamed or lesser because of it, or because of whatever stereotypical obscenities you’ve filled your head with.”  
  
“England, I…”  
  
“It isn’t what I want,” England breathed.   
  
All the air rushed from America’s lungs in a rush. “I… it isn’t like that.”   
  
He was still smiling and it was both heartbreaking and infuriating and beautiful to look at. Still floored, America tried to summon up the words to say what he was feeling, what he was thinking. He hurt all over.   
  
“How is it, then?” he asked.   
  
America, again, could not find the words. His brow furrowed and he frowned, deeply.   
  
“Okay,” he said slowly, “I just gotta man up and say it.”   
  
England gave him a look.  
  
America cleared his throat. “So listen carefully.”  
  
“I am listening,” England said softly.   
  
“I want you,” America said firmly. England, despite expecting a statement like that, still looked startled. America cleared his throat again. “I want to be with you. But…”   
  
England took a step away.  
  
“I understand.”   
  
America realized England was retreating, and didn’t want him to. He leaned forward, grasping his wrist and keeping him there.  
  
“You _don’t_ understand!”   
  
England’s hand was shaking. America stared at it.  
  
He seemed to realize something in that moment.  
  
He looked up at England. England let him look, and looked back at him, eyes uncertain.   
  
“England… do you,” America paused, licked his lips, felt his entire body seize with fear at the answer, “do you love me, too?”  
  
England’s eyes widened and he stared straight at America. There was no immediate reaction, but slowly, America watched the way the blush crept steadily up England’s neck and over his face and finally settling on the tips of his ears.  
  
When he didn’t answer right away, America whispered, “Do you?”  
  
The way he was looking at him—with wide eyes—and the fact he hadn’t come out and said no right away—it left America to think, that maybe it was true. It left him to hope, unrestrained and unrelenting.  
  
“Don’t—no,” England said, his voice lifting higher than usual, taken aback. “Don’t be—don’t be ridiculous. As if I could—as if you were someone that I—”  
  
And America wasn’t sure why, exactly, that thought made him want to sink into the ground, to throw himself over England and demand that he think differently. Except he knew exactly why. And he stared at England with wide, stricken eyes, his entire body tensed and the ridiculous urge to cry returning to battle against the back of his eyes. He blinked rapidly.   
  
But England choked on his words upon seeing America’s face and he stuttered to a halt. He stared up at America’s face and, truly, for the first time, realized that America wasn’t lying, that his words were true. He realized, belatedly, that he was staring up at someone who loved him back.  
  
“England…” America whispered, voice broken and small.  
  
England lifted his hands, touching America’s cheeks. He opened his mouth, felt his entire face crumble into one of infinite sadness and disbelief. He stroked America’s skin, trying to calm him, to commit the feel of him to his memory.   
  
“Are you…” America said quietly, recalling their entire conversation since he’d twisted his ankle for the first time, running over every word, trying his best to _understand_. He stared at England, refused to let the hope die. The little glimmers sparked in his chest. He swallowed. “You’re… lying, aren’t you?”  
  
“I—” England began. He bit his lip and closed his eyes. He inhaled sharply, not saying anything for a long moment. “I… I am.”  
  
“England?” America prompted. “You love me, don’t you?”   
  
“All you ever do… is demand such compromising things from me,” England whispered. “It’s all you do—leave me feeling vulnerable as you selfishly demand information as if you were only asking for the time of day. This entire trip—all you’ve done is think about yourself, you selfish little brat, and everything surrounding you. And you don’t even think about how I—how I’m affected. And yet you never stop asking these things of me—of asking things that maybe I—maybe I… I hardly…”  
  
“England…?”  
  
England trailed off, and looked up into America’s eyes.  
  
And then he nodded. He mouthed the words, though no sound came out.   
  
There was a long silence, as the action sank into the contours of America’s mind. And then systematically exploded every rational thought into smithereens.   
  
“You really are dense, if you have to ask me that,” England whispered. “Even through all this, all you can do is think about yourself. You never realize what others are trying to tell you, do you?”   
  
“What? Hey…” America protested, but it sounded weak.   
  
England’s eyes shut when he spoke again, his voice calmed, resigned: “I have always loved you, America.”   
  
The words exploded again—to hear it—and America stared in shock. The words exploded, with barely any spare moments for it to settle. It struck America to his core and made everything shatter. Into infinitesimal pieces.   
  
America swallowed, suddenly feeling as if there was cotton in his throat. He tried to work his way around it, but he stumbled.   
  
“F-fuck,” America cursed and hated himself for the stutter. He leaned forward, nearly tripping out of the truck and falling on top of England in his haste. “Fuck, oh my fucking _God_.”   
  
“What a mouth you have tonight,” England muttered, embarrassed.   
  
“Fuck it. Just—fuck it,” America cursed, “Fuck everything—you… you _love_ me.”  
  
“Yes, I’m well aware of that,” England muttered, red-faced. “Now shut your mouth.”   
  
America started to speak but jumped as England curled his fingers into the front of America’s shirt and pressed upwards. The words choked in his throat and America stopped speaking all together so that he could lean down and just kiss England already.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They reached Los Angeles on the seventeenth day.

America’s arms wrapped around England’s waist, pulling him up and closer, England’s fingers curled into the front of his shirt. They kissed. England stayed perfectly still a moment before he seemed to snap out of a tiny daze. At attention now, he sank against America, fingers releasing his shirt to slip up and wrapping in his hair and twisting, licking his tongue along America’s bottom lip until America opened to him and they were kissing and it was—

It was exactly what he’d wanted all along.

England kissed him, traced his tongue and mouth and teeth and bit and suckled and breathed and with every passing moment America felt himself sinking and knew he was sinking and didn’t care that he was sinking. Because this had been what he’d wanted all along—to be with England, only England. He’d just been too blind to see it or to understand it.

He kissed him like how he spoke with him, blunt and straight-forward, sharp tongue and gentle bite, fumbling only slightly, occasionally, before smoothing into him as if he was meant to be there. It felt natural, it felt exactly as it should feel. Better, because it was with England. America responded eagerly to England’s kisses, gripping his shoulders first and then lifting to cup his jaw, stroking his thumbs over the skin he found and twisting his fingers into his hair and keeping him close, keeping him from pulling away.

When they did pull away for air, America didn’t let England get far. He rested his forehead against England’s, and England allowed this, though he blushed and shoved slightly at his shoulders, half-heartedly. His breathing was labored, his face red and eyes glazed over. But America dared to suspect that England looked happy, if a little cautious and unsure.

“… Well,” England said after a pregnant pause in which he dared to flicker his gaze up from America’s mouth and to look him in the eyes. Blue met green and the corners of America’s eyes crinkled in pleasure as he beamed at England.

America laughed, softly, but a little nervously, and the hands that gripped him were shaking only slightly as he stepped out into an unknown he was not sure of—but a hero never backed down, and he would not move away from England, not again. He’d messed up, he’d been slow to the punch line as per usual, but he’d never do it again. He’d missed the man looking him straight in the eye, completely missed what was right in front of him, but he’d never do it again. Not if he could help it.

“I—haha, wow,” America breathed, and his nose bumped against England’s as he shifted, trying to smother his large grin so he could focus on kissing England again. Forehead still against his, he closed his eyes a moment, still grinning inanely and brushing his nose against England’s.

England snorted, one eyebrow rising at the boy’s words but expression quickly enough softening as America’s hands, still shaking, gripped him tighter and pulled him closer. He lifted a hand, smoothing his thumb along America’s bottom lip and kissed the corner of his smiling mouth.

“Don’t get hysterical now, lad,” England warned and America laughed again, happy and elated, with the undercurrent of manic nervousness. England shifted, kissing the other corner of his mouth. “It’s alright.”

“Yeah,” America breathed, finally managing to smooth out his smile and tilting his head to catch England’s mouth before he could pull away. The hand on his face curled, the blunt sides of England’s nails brushing over his bright red cheek. He kissed him, and sank further and further into that feeling. He pulled away, laughter still tinting his voice. “It’s more than alright—it’s great, it’s wonderful.”

When the pulled away for air, it didn’t seem as if anything in the world had changed substantially. They were still in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in California, with the only light coming from the truck. There were probably stars overhead and America chanced a glance upwards before returning his attention to England, focusing on his face, on the way he felt in his arms. England was blushing, his face scrunched up in a strange mixture—as if he was doing his best not to appear as happy as he actually was, his nose crinkled. He held onto America just as tightly as America held him, and his green eyes betrayed his thoughts—now that America knew where to look for his thoughts.

“You aren’t actually going to walk to an airport, are you?” America whispered, breath brushing over England’s lips.

England’s eyelids fluttered and he peered up into America’s eyes. He sighed, looking miffed but only slightly so. “Don’t be ridiculous,” England muttered, eyes closing. “We haven’t even made it to Los Angeles yet.”

America laughed, his joy skyrocketing once again, and pulled England up again for another kiss. England pushed up to him, kissing him and groping blindly for something to grab hold of in the truck. Grasping the back of the seat and the door’s arm rest, he pulled himself up into the truck, kissing America and silently pushing him onto his back. America willfully let himself be pushed down, let England come to him. England climbed up over him, mouth attached to America’s as America arched and held his breath, forgot to breathe, as England kissed him. England’s mouth grazed over America’s, soft one moment before pressing with gentle force, sucking on America’s bottom lip, exploring his mouth with leisure, open-mouthed kisses, or allowing for America to absorb him, cradle him, inhale him. He licked and bit and stroked and his mouth took over America’s own until there was no coherent thought in America’s mind and his entire existence consisted of kissing England and letting England kiss him.

When England finally pulled away, he studied America’s face with inquisitive eyes, staying silent a moment before brushing his fingertips along his jaw, tracing the bruise blossoming along his jaw line. He almost looked apologetic, though he said nothing. He pulled away, sitting up.

“Wha—hey,” America protested, almost reaching out for England when he felt he’d gone too far away.

England rolled one shoulder and then dropped back down onto the pavement outside the still opened passenger door. “We should get going. A hotel will have ice for your foot. And I’d much rather avoid dealing with any of your state troopers at a time like this.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” America said and hoped he didn’t sound as disappointed as he felt. Kissing England seemed much more preferable than taking care of his foot. But avoiding awkward questioning from his cops was very much desirable, on the other hand.

And England had already moved on, taking America’s legs and tucking them into the truck with gentle ease, making sure he was all in the truck. He pressed his hands briefly over his swollen ankle, frowning before pulling away to shut the passenger door. He closed the door behind him with an authoritative snap. America sighed, feeling his body decompress and long to have England near him again. On his back, America stared up at the light in the car’s roof briefly, waiting as England crossed over from the passenger’s door to the driver’s door, walking in front of the truck to do so. He bit his lip, letting out a long sigh, trying to usher in some semblance of normalcy, even as his entire insides fluttered and his heart leapt at just the thought of England. The door behind his head opened and America tilted his head back, looking up at England, upside-down in his vision.

“Hey,” he said with a grin, loopy, ridiculous, and so very happy.

“Hello, darling,” England said, a hint of amusement laced in the cautious way he spoke. America felt his heart leap. England leaned forward, surveying America’s expression before lifting his hand. He brushed some of the hair from America’s forehead before dragging his fingers through the tangled golden hair, nails scraping across his scalp and making America shiver. He even closed his eyes, his smile curling in pleasure. Soon enough England’s hand fell away and he said, “Up you go, lad.”

America did as he was asked, and as he did he turned around to watch England move into the truck. He kept running the same thing repeatedly in his head: England felt the same way he did; they both loved each other. They both wanted to be together. It was exhilarating but also terrifying. It was a new, strange feeling that bubbled in America’s chest and lodged in his throat and he loved it. He hoped he never got used to it, never forgot the feeling of a flopping heart, the spread of warmth in his chest, the feel of wanting England near him and knowing that England felt the same way. It was wonderful. But so terrifying—so very terrifying. It was so very terrifying to have someone be that important to him, have someone see him when he was at his best and his worst, to be vulnerable. What was going to happen now? What would others think if they knew? What would he do? Could he be fully honest with England? Could he trust England and could England trust him? What about all those—

England closed the door behind them, and the light above them stayed on. It was only the two of them now, the world outside the truck faded away completely.

“I certainly hope the battery won’t die,” England muttered, sounding annoyed now.

“It’d be your fault,” America decided. “Way to be totally and unnecessarily dramatic. What kind of person goes running off into the middle of nowhere and leaves the truck unlocked?”

England gave him a sharp look, but it lacked as much venom as America’s words may have invited in the past. America sat up onto his knees, hands pressed to the seat cushion so he could lean forward, staring straight and unrelenting at England’s profile. England sighed and tilted his head to look at America, face deadpanned. America grinned at him, feeling that familiar hysterical feeling bubbling in his chest again—goofy, happy, so, so happy…

“A kind of person such as me, evidently,” England drawled, but didn’t sound annoyed anymore, if not a little embarrassed about his earlier behavior.

America’s grin spread. It seemed that America’s grin was infectious, as England had to look away, but not before that strange, lopsided smile, the one that never seemed to fit on England’s face but America loved anyway, ghosted over his lips. America knew, then. Nothing mattered. Nothing else even mattered—who cared what others thought, it wasn’t their business. Who cared at all, except that he was happy? Nothing mattered, so long as he was happy with England and England was happy with him, right? He wanted to be with England, and that meant that he would trust him and be honest with him. If it was England, it would be okay to be vulnerable. England was more important. He was the most important.

“What is it?” England asked.

America shook his head. “Nothing… just, realizing stuff. I guess.”

“Hm,” England said, unsure what to say to such a statement so opting to change the subject. “Shall I get us to a hotel for the night? For your foot.”

“Just wait a second,” America said with a nod, leaning forward. England’s expression flickered and he sighed, lifting a hand to pat it almost tenderly against America’s cheek, fingers curled and touch light.

“I am waiting,” he said. “Out with it.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess you are,” America said, blinking almost owlishly in the night.

“So what is it?” England asked.

“I just—I don’t care anymore. I didn’t… I didn’t think that you’d feel the same way,” America said, and pressed a hand to his face, inhaling sharply, trying to keep himself from shaking. He blinked his eyes and puffed up his chest a bit, leaning forward to stare at England harder. The hand on America’s cheek shivered a moment, but then held firm, pressing against the warmed skin. “I want to be with you. That’s more important than anything else; anything else means I’m being a dumbass. Alright?”

“Yes, a ‘dumbass,’” England agreed.

America couldn’t even be mad at the jab—he deserved it for all the shit he’d done ever since this roadtrip started, and probably even before that, he was starting to realize, if he allowed himself to think on it for long. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. So no matter what, I’ll definitely do everything I can from now on to make up for how I totally missed the ball. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be the best, most awesome… most awesome… uh…”

England raised one eyebrow when America trailed off abruptly.

America cleared his throat. “That is… uh, what are we now?”

“I beg your pardon,” England asked, eyebrows still raised.

“Just… I dunno, what does this make us?”

“What would you like us to be?” England asked, leaning against the driver’s door, surveying America’s earnest face staring back at him. He shifted away slightly but America followed after him.

“I said it already,” America said, face red. “I wanna be with you.”

England licked his lips, felt his heart pounding. He closed his eyes a moment before clearing his throat. He murmured, “I assure you that the… the feeling is mutual.”

“Well—great! Cause I’m pretty great, and… ya know, awesome,” America said, and just managed to keep the stammer from his voice.

“Of course,” England said, opening his eyes simply to roll his eyes at America. “If it’s something that you want—”

“Is it something that you want?” America interrupted. England frowned at him. “Don’t talk as if you’re doing this for my benefit or something,” America protested, pushing forward to cage England in, pressing one hand to the back of the seat and the other to the door, leaning over England. “Look, I know that… I’ve fucked up and all that. So I can’t blame you if you don’t wanna but—but tell me what you want. Don’t keep it to yourself and assume—ya know, do what you told me. You gotta do what makes you happy. Fuck what anybody else thinks. If you want to say no, then say no. But if… you want to say yes, then say yes.” The unspoken please hung in the air. He licked his lips. “I might be kinda unused to it at first, but once I learn how to do it, I’ll be the greatest ever—you’d be crazy not to be with me. So, do what makes you happy.”

England was still frowning.

“… Or something,” America offered, lamely, face still red. He almost retreated, but England lifted his other hand as the one on his cheek dropped away, touching America’s shoulders, then wrapping around the back of his neck, hooked slightly, keeping him close.

“I want to be with you, too,” England said simply, with no hesitation and no trace of irony.

“Wha—well, good!” America crowed and watched England cringe when he spoke a little too loudly, given their proximity. “Sorry,” he muttered, looking down. He blew out a long stream of air, puffing his cheeks up when he inhaled, and held his breath for half a moment. “I’m… uh…”

“Are you nervous?” England asked, his eyes down, once America trailed off again.

“What? No,” America protested.

“Your heart is pounding,” England pointed out.

“Huh?” America asked, alarmed.

“I can see it beating through your shirt,” England said, and sure enough, when America looked down to where England was looking, he could see the fabric moving up and down in time with his shirt. England’s knuckles rapped gently against the back of America’s neck, beating in time to his heartbeat.

“Well, fine. I am nervous,” America muttered, feeling his face heat up. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Usually one allows for things like this to just happen,” England said. “It’s alright to be nervous, though.”

“I just don’t wanna mess up again.”

“You take all this time to notice something beyond your own ego, and hardly ever think, and then when you’re faced with a situation like this, you actually overthink things,” England marveled, amused. The hand shifted away from his neck to curl around his shirt collar, dragging America over England as England sank down, lying flat on his back. He smiled up at America. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but: don’t think so much, my dear lad.”

America crawled over him, swallowing the lump in his throat and staring down at England. England stared up at him and smiled, and he almost seemed to glow.

And then the truck’s light finally clicked off, the two doors closing them in together, America over England, their breaths mingling and fingers tangled in one another’s hair as America leaned down to kiss England again.

England arched up against him, opening his mouth to America. America needed no further invitation and curled over the older nation, cradling his head and forgetting to breathe again as he dove into the giddy feeling in his chest that refused to lessen, letting himself sink into England.

He pulled away, breathing shallow. “I’ll make it all up to you.”

“You can start by quitting with saying that,” England muttered, faced flushed.

“Trust me,” America said. “I’ll make it better.”

England closed his eyes and almost laughed, his expression closing off a moment before England forced himself to relax. “… Trust you, yes. Yes… I’ll trust you.”

America squirmed slightly. “You won’t be sorry.”

A ghost of a smile touched England’s lips. “Hallelujah, then.”

America blew out a hot breath of air, feeling himself deflate.

“You don’t need to be nervous,” England said after a pause. “It’ll work out.”

“Yeah!” America said, puffing up with bravado he hoped shielded the lingering nervousness, the insecurity and uncertainty. “I’ll be the coolest, greatest boyfriend ever. I’ll be totally and epically awesome.”

“Epically,” England mimicked in a drawl, sardonic.

“Yes,” America insisted.

This time England did chuckle. “I look forward to it. Let’s see if that will be the case.”

“It will,” America vowed. “England I’m—I’m really nervous right now, and I’m—I’ve never done something like this before. But it’s you. And I… I’ll do everything I can, to make sure that I’ll be the best. I won’t run away again.”

England surveyed his face a moment before, after a pause that seemed to last forever, he nodded. America’s heart leapt again. And for the first time, America realized that, despite his calmed voice, England’s heart was beating just as quickly as America’s, and his hands were shaking ever so slightly. America swallowed the thick lump in his throat and saw England mimic the motion, swallowing thickly, almost forgetting to breathe again. America grasped England’s hands, pressing them down to the seat next to England’s head, leaning over him, staring into his face.

“I’ve hurt you, so…”

“It’s inevitable,” England reminded. “We live as long as we do… it’s inevitable that any of us would hurt someone else. I’ve hurt you in the past, you’ve hurt me. If we’re perfectly honest, we’ll do so in the future.”

“That’s a sad way of looking at it.”

“I can’t help but be pessimistic at times,” England agreed.

“I guess,” America decided. “Then, hopefully that future doesn’t show up for a while, right?”

“Right,” England said with a nod. “Just… don’t run away, again.”

“I’m not going to,” America promised, and hoped his face was as serious as he felt it was. He stared at England, eyes earnest. “I’m never going to run from you again, England.”

England sucked in a steadying breath, silent for a moment. Then he whispered, “I believe you.”

Those words, somehow, seemed far more intimate than anything else England had said, possibly because of the way he was looking up at America, possibly because of the way he spoke the words. He breathed, and America remembered to breathe as well. America smiled, shifting forward to kiss him again, except at that point, his foot was caught between the seat and the door and he felt it tweak painfully. He pulled away with a hiss of pain, his entire body tensing up. England blinked in surprise as America jerked away. He sat up a little, balancing his weight on his elbows, watching as America sat back against England’s hips, rotating around to grasp his ankle with precarious care, cursing softly under his breath.

“We should get back to driving,” England reminded gently, sitting up and moving out from underneath America.

America frowned at him, almost pouted.

England smoothed his hand over America’s hair, and beckoned him closer again as England righted himself, strapping into his seatbelt.

“Lean against me, then you can prop your foot up easily. You need to keep it elevated.”

America did as he was commanded, leaning against England’s arm, head resting on England’s shoulder. He looked up at the older nation through the fringe of his hair as England started the truck and started driving again, one handed. America got himself comfortable, propping his foot up as best he could without aggravating his ankle.

England drove in silence, and America rested against him in silence. At his angle, America could see the sky outside, and he counted the stars until they reflected in his glasses. England concentrated on the road, navigating darkened roads, searching for a hotel to stay the night. Eventually, from the excursion of the day and just general exhaustion, America lapsed into sleep, his head lolling slightly against England’s shoulder until it settled in a semi-comfortable position—England suspected the boy would have a crick in his neck once he awoke—and even letting out the smallest of snores occasionally.

It was only then that England chanced a glance at him, expression cautiously fond. He shifted his shoulder so that America was more pressed up against England’s chest instead of shoulder. His arm free, he wrapped it around America protectively, fingers brushing through his hair momentarily before settling in to hold him close.

England pressed a kiss to the sleeping boy’s temple. “I believe you. I… trust you. Don’t make me regret that, America.”

 

\---

 

“Ah, geez, thank god for elevators,” America whined as he stumbled into their hotel room for the night and collapsed onto the bed. England followed him, dropping their bags on the other bed and moving over to America’s side. America looked up at him, body flopped, arms over his head, blinking up at England.

“… I’ll get the ice,” England decided, turning away from America and trailing out to the hallway to find the ice machine.

He came back a few minutes later, with a bucket of ice and a towel. He set them on the bedside table and moved to America’s side again, who hadn’t yet moved. Making a small, disapproving sound by clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth, England bent over America, rolling up his pant leg and removing his socks and shoes. America reveled in the feel of England touching him. He closed his eyes, focusing on the feel of England’s deft fingertips brushing over his skin, barely there but sending electric currents shooting into his heart.

England leaned over him and America opened his eyes to look at his throat, the way England’s body arched in time with all his movements. He grasped the pillow and pulled away again, though America’s eyes followed him. England set to work of propping America’s foot up. He fiddled with the bucket of ice, looking around in vain for a bag to put it into and eventually giving up, and wrapping the towel around a liberal amount of ice cubes. America heard England muttering to himself, supposedly cursing the ice’s name, but quickly enough he turned around and then setting the ice down on top of America’s swollen ankle.

“I’m just taking pity on you,” England said abruptly, “Don’t think that I’ll take care of you every time you hurt yourself.”

America wiggled his toes, smiling. “I feel better already. Thanks, England.”

“Hmph,” England scoffed, turning away, but not before America caught sight of his red face.

 

\---

 

England watched him over the edge of his book. Sitting on the chair, he watched the way America squirmed over on the bed, the way he looked over at England and pretended he wasn’t looking. He seemed a bit stir crazy, not moving because of his swollen, pained ankle. But his eyes kept drifting away from where he was watching one of his movies over to England, studying him when he thought that England wasn’t looking. When England shifted, to turn a page or glance up, America quickly diverted his attention away. The boy, truly, was not subtle.

He watched, over the edge of his book, the way America kept looking at him, bit his lower lip and struggled, as if he had something to say and wasn’t sure how to say it or whether he should say it. He watched the way America’s fingers gripped his pant legs, or the duvet, or just curled into fists with nothing to hold on to.

I’m hoping that you really will always feel the same as I do, England found himself thinking before he could stop it, and his heart lodged itself into his throat.

He believed America’s words, trusted those words, and it worried him how easily he trusted them, kept them safe in the contours of his heart. It worried him, because if he was wrong, he wasn’t sure how many times he would be able to handle that heartbreak, that disappointment, that feeling of abandonment and I told you so. But the way America looked at him—it looked too much like the way England looked at America. So he had to believe, he had to. He forced the pessimism into the shadows of his heart, felt himself nurse the wounds and slowly mend them, slowly believing that perhaps it would get better; perhaps, now, because they were walking down that road together. He was scared, but that was alright. He could see it in America’s eyes—he was scared, too. So they would be scared together.

England looked up and caught America’s eyes before America could force his gaze away. “Do you need anything?”

“Huh? Uh…”

England waited patiently, licked his lips and let his heart flutter in his chest. America felt the same way he did. America, despite his insecurities and uncertainties, wanted to be with him. So England would be with him, and keep the boy close.

“You can… read your book over here, if ya want. There aren’t any crumbs in the bed this time.”

England closed the book with a snap and stood up, with no hesitation, and walked over to America. He’d been waiting—hoping—for the invitation. It was too soon for him to give himself over completely, to let himself fall until there was no hope of standing up again. He would let America take the initiative.

“Of course.”

He pulled himself onto the other side of the bed, and felt America looking up at him, wide eyes and big smile. England settled himself, book by his side. He sank against the pillows propped up behind him and sighed, content. He glanced over, and found America looking at him. With a small, haphazard smile that always felt strange to him, England held up his arm, palm out, inviting America closer.

America perked up, scrambling closer, mindful of his foot, and pressed up to England’s side, his grin still just as wide but feeling warmer somehow. Strong arms wrapped around England’s waist and England felt himself relax further as America rested against him, twisted in a way that couldn’t be that comfortable, foot still propped up on a pillow at the end of the bed and eyes on the television now. America sank against him, shifted slightly until he did get comfortable, and then said nothing more, happy with England’s arm around his shoulders.

England returned to his book and pretended not to notice the way America continued to sink down in his subtle attempts to get comfortable, until, by the end of the movie, America’s cheek was pressed on England’s thigh, watching the movie, fingers drumming along England’s knee in time to the musical score. Now that they could touch each other, England mused, it seemed neither of them wanted to pull away. He snared his fingers in America’s hair, not taking his eyes from his book.

 

\---

 

For all the affection and attention America paid England when it was the two of them, America got skittish once they were out in public. This was just as well for England, who’d always been ambivalent about public displays of affection (and feared the day, should it ever come, that America would not be nervous and unsure about their new relationship). He knew it would take time for America to get used to it, to not shy away when he thought eyes were on him. England knew it was true, and accepted it with as much dignity as one can, and almost regretted that, deep down, he had a bit of a martyr complex.

This didn’t mean that America didn’t touch him, of course. The way things were, he needed help to hobble down the stairs. America would slump against England, putting his weight on him, his arm over his shoulder, face scrunched up in pain and concentration as he moved as smoothly down the steps as he could—this motel did not have an elevator, but thankfully only one flight of stairs. England felt the hot breath wafting over his neck, felt the tightening hold of his arm around his shoulders, and his responding arm around America’s waist.

“Here’s the truck now,” England told the boy and America looked up, face melting in gratitude to see England had moved the truck close to the outdoor staircase (and subsequently parked illegally because of it). They moved (America wobbled) to the passenger door. “Up you go, lad,” England said and helped America up into his seat, holding his hand to help push him up. He patted America’s knee once he was all settled in. “I’ll grab the bags and we’ll be off.”

When he returned, it seemed that America had lapsed into a thoughtful silence. He looked startled when England opened the driver’s door, whipping around to stare at England. England raised one eyebrow at him.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” America said, and then grinned. “Let’s go!”

England started the truck and began driving again, staying in a thoughtful silence himself. It all took getting used to. Something had shifted profoundly between them, but essentially, things seemed the almost same—except that England was quickly discovering the fastest way to shut America up was just to kiss him. He knew America was still unsure, still worried, but doing his best to work past that and to hold true to his promise of being the “epic” boyfriend. England knew it would take a while—possibly years—before America was fully comfortable, and England in turn. It was a step in the right direction, however. England was patient—one had to be, after living for as long as he had. He knew America was doing his best, so he, too, would do his best—he would do what he could to trust and to be open, to do his best. They would both do their best. Together.

He couldn’t be unhappy with the boy’s behavior, not fully. Part of him worried about America stewing in his shame, but recognized it was not shame of their particular relationship—America had said so himself: it would be the case with anyone he’d be with. America was not used to being this open to people, to share so much with someone. Though there hadn’t been any of this profound sharing as far as England could tell, he understood on the symbolic level (and how America loved his symbolism), America and England had put themselves in vulnerable positions. So England would do his best to honor the boy, to help show him that there was no reason to be scared, or nervous, or ashamed. And hopefully that would rub off on England and he’d stop feeling so hesitant, so unsure. They both had a long way to go.

England waited until they were out on the open highway, away from others, before seizing America’s hand, lifting it, and giving it a squeeze before setting it back down.

America blinked at him in confusion.

England focused on the road outside. “It’ll be okay. Don’t think so much.”

“… Right,” America agreed, with a little nod. He sat still for a moment before shifting over, leaning over. He hesitated again just as he was a few moments away from England, and then leaned in and kissed England’s ear. Then, to keep this from being overly sappy, blew hot breath into England’s ear and laughed when England squirmed, face scrunching up.

“I’d hit you if you weren’t already an invalid,” England growled.

America kept laughing, and the sound was light and airy and wonderful. For now, that was more than enough. Even if it was only a little, to England, America would always be enough.

 

\---

 

They spent several days traveling down through California. Things stayed mostly the same, with that large shift between them that both acknowledged but neither said.

It remained in such a way, and steadily America’s foot began to get better. The swelling went down, though the tenderness and the limp remained. He didn’t have to slump over England, and secretly both missed the excuse to be able to stand so close to one another. They made up for it behind closed doors, America’s sloppy but enthusiastic kisses coupled with England’s more reserved and elegant strokes of the tongue.

They stopped for the night in a hotel room, after filling up the gas tank and America limping in and out of the food mart attached to the gas station. He slurped his blue-raspberry slushie loudly, so loudly that England was positive he was going to get a headache—and looking at that sugary mass of blue foam was enough to send England into a sugar headache. When he pointed this out, and how obscene the drink seemed, America only laughed, fidgeting slightly, and then, just to be obnoxious, slurped extra loudly. England did hit him, though not as hard as he probably should have. America laughed and ducked out of the way, drinking his drink but still fidgeting, his mind elsewhere. Something was on his mind, but England ignored it, moving to walk towards the counter and get them a room.

“Hey,” America said, and the tone of his voice caused England pause.

England looked over at him. “Yes?”

America licked his lips, staring down at his slushie with deep thought, thinking over his words—for once—before actually saying them. “Uh, it’d probably be easier… ya know, to just get a room with one bed.”

England stared at him, not comprehending the words at first before he blinked rapidly, feeling his face heat up. He turned around fully to face America, hand on his hip, with narrowed eyes. America gave him a lopsided smile, nervous, his cup shaking slightly with his hold.

“You want me to get us a room with one bed,” England said slowly.

“Yeah,” America said, face undoubtedly red now. “If ya want. We don’t have to. Just, ya know, I keep falling asleep on you anyway when we watch the movies. Figured it’d be easier just to get one big bed instead of those tiny ones, yeah?”

England thought this over, and recognized the offer for what it was. America was making steps. And he looked damned nervous, but not uncertain. There wasn’t hesitancy, just more of his forced bravado and nervousness.

“Are you certain you’re alright with that? What will be people think?”

America swallowed, staring at his feet before shaking his head. “They won’t ever see us again—right? So it’s… fine.”

England allowed a small smile to touch his lips and he stepped forward, patting America’s shoulder. “No need to look like a kicked puppy. Honestly.”

“I do not,” America protested weakly.

England’s hand lingered on his shoulder before he pulled away with a small shake of his head. “I’ll go get us a room. If you can manage with your foot, go grab the bags.”

 

\---

 

When they got to the room together, there was one bed. England didn’t look at America, though he felt America looking at him. He strolled into the room, dropping his bag off in a chair and lifting his hand to loosen his tie, running his other hand through his hair with a small sigh.

“Goodness, you wouldn’t expect driving to be as exhausting as it is, but, well,” England said, mostly to himself.

America slurped on his slushie. “Yeah.”

England kicked off his shoes and toed out of his socks. He pushed them under the chair and moved to draw the curtains closed, shutting out the bright lights outside. He clicked on the light and looked over at America, who was still standing in the same spot, holding his bag.

“What is it?” England asked at last. “Something’s been bothering you all day, America.”

“Huh?” America asked, and slurped down more blue drink. His lips were turning blue, and his teeth had a slight bluish tint to them.

“If you have something to say, go ahead and say it,” England said with a wave of his hand.

America sucked down even more of his drink and then stopped abruptly, his face scrunching up as he was hit with a brain freeze. He let out a small, aggravated sigh, and sank down onto their bed, cradling his head. England moved over to him, frowning. America grabbed England’s wrist and kept him from going away. He muttered something.

“Come again?” England asked.

“I want to go on a date,” America said again, louder this time. The brain freeze seemed to pass and he looked up at England. “With you.”

“Well obviously with me,” England muttered, “I do so hope.”

“Just—we haven’t yet. And like. You know. Yeah.”

“You know in the grand scheme of things, this entire ridiculous trip could be your idea of a date, as horrible as it’s been at times.”

“When we get to LA we should go to the zoo,” America said, growing more confident now that he’d said it and England had neither run away screaming nor insulted him. In fact, his bitter reprisal was something of an acceptance.

“The zoo,” England repeated.

“Yeah! It’d be awesome!”

“Fine, fine, we’ll go to your silly zoo,” England said, but actually sounded quite pleased. He fell back onto the bed, on his back, behind America’s back. America beamed with pleasure. “Is that all you wanted to talk about?” England asked. “Honestly, America. You needn’t have kept that to yourself.”

America laughed. He finished his slushie with a loud slurp and chucked the empty drink container into the wastebasket. Even from that distance, he made it. He did a little fist pump as celebration for his achievements. With the slushie gone, he fell into silence, sobering up a little. England observed him, hands folded over his stomach, trying to keep his breathing even, even as he felt the tension in the air percolate.

“Is there something else you wanted to say?” England invited.

America fidgeted. “I. Uh. Was thinking again.”

“You seem to do that a lot lately,” England said. He looked up at America, surveying the taller nation, the young, boyish face—still so young, even after all these years—and his blushing cheeks.

“Yeah,” America said softly. “But—uh—” America said quietly, turning his attention back towards his new boyfriend—boyfriend!—and grinning again, nervous yet giddy. He stuffed a hand into his pocket and fiddled around. “What I was thinking about… it, uh, it’s. Uh. Um. You can feel free to call me a dumbass or whatever, cause… uh. I don’t know.”

“Well I don’t know either, if you don’t just say it.”

“Um,” America said. He turned away again.

“Stop being so skittish. It doesn’t suit you. Just say it, if you’re such a brave hero.”

America frowned, face bright red. England had meant for the jab to be humor, but it seemed America took it as some kind of condescending jab. They sat in silence, neither speaking. America didn’t offer what he was thinking of, and England did not apologize. England felt the color creeping up his own face, feeling that he knew exactly what it was that America was going to ask. He watched the younger nation swallow, and push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Okay,” America said, slowly, sucking in a sharp breath and letting it out in a small hiss. He squared his shoulders and twisted around to look at England fully, hand planted on the soft duvet beneath them. “I want to sleep with you again.”

“Do you?” England asked, genuinely surprised. He’d expected that America would avoid such a thing for a while. He felt a strange stirring of warmth spread throughout his chest.

America nodded, and it looked as if his face would burst from the amount of blood in his cheeks.

America dug around in his pocket and England raised his eyebrows as the boy pulled out a package of condoms. England adjusted his tie and swallowed, suddenly finding it very hard to breathe. “I see you came prepared.”

“The slushie was an afterthought,” America said with a shrug, trying and failing to seem nonchalant. His hand was shaking slightly. When England didn’t respond right away, America sighed a little. “Uh, but we don’t have to. I mean. It’d make sense if you didn’t want to, cause of last time. And cause we haven’t been on a date yet and we’ve only been—uh—‘together’ for a couple of days. If. You don’t wanna that’s fine. Uh. I guess if I’m—”

“America,” England interrupted smoothly, lifting a hand and grasping America by his belt, pulling him over to climb on top of him. “Silence yourself before you say something completely stupid. Go hang up that ‘do not disturb’ sign.”

“Wha—really?” America asked, eyes wide.

England nodded. “Go on,” he said softly, stroking the side of America’s face, fingers grazing along his jaw line. “I want to, too. I was waiting for you.”

America didn’t have to be told twice, stumbling to his feet and tripping to the door so he could hang the sign on the door handle outside.

England sat up as America approached, still limping slightly, climbing onto the bed and shrugging out of his bomber jacket. England helped him out of it, hands smoothing over his arms. They came together, kissing.

England pulled away and made a face quickly enough, however. “You taste like your drink.”

“Yeah, pretty awesome, right?”

“Hardly,” England muttered and leaned in to kiss along America’s neck instead, fingers brushing over the front of his chest, following the lines and dips of his body through his shirt. “But I suppose that’s part of your charm.”

“I’m totally charming,” America defended as England suckled on the skin of his neck and the beginnings of shoulders, lips ghosting and pillowing over golden skin, fingers tracing his sides and the lines of his ribs under his shirt.

“Perfectly so,” England agreed, which surprised America. England pushed him back onto his back, crawling over him and mouthing against his skin, straddling his waist and rubbing a bit until their hips bumped and America gasped low in his throat.

“It’s really okay?” America asked, feeling as if he was still in a state of shock.

“Are you really going to look a gift horse in the mouth, America?” England drawled.

“But—” America began, because apparently he was going to do just that, “I thought that… uh. I dunno. After last time, you wouldn’t want to right away. And like. Just, you know. We both have kinda… are us.”

“But you asked anyway,” England pointed out, taking a moment to try and figure out just what it was that America was trying to say.

“Well, a guy can hope,” America muttered, face red. “I dunno.”

“I,” England said with deadly seriousness, leaning over America and rolling his hips just to see America gasp, “have wanted you for one hundred years, America. If you invite it, you can’t expect me to honestly say no, past history and circumstances aside or not.”

“… Oh,” America said softly, his breath stolen by the movement of England’s hips and his words. “Okay.”

“If you really won’t regret it,” England added, staring at him.

America’s expression crumbled for half a moment before he shook his head, lifting his hands to cup England’s face. “I won’t.”

England studied his face, seemed to see what he was looking for, and gave him a slight smile. He turned his head and kissed America’s palm. “I won’t, either.”

“Good,” America said, beaming. “So how are we gonna—uh.”

England glanced up at him, saw his expression, and pulled away a little, sitting back against America’s crotch in a way that practically made the younger nation whimper—but he refused to admit to making such an incriminating noise. He licked his lips.

“Usually you allow these things to happen naturally. I should have known that even in this situation you would find the opportunity to speak needlessly. Honestly, you never keep your mouth shut.”

“Yeah—well. It’s good to get it all worked out, right? Having a plan. You like plans.”

“And you like spontaneity,” England teased, brushing his fingers along America’s face. America knew England wasn’t actually annoyed, only pretending, because his face was too gentle.

“Maybe I just like to talk.”

“I think,” England said very slowly, very seriously, face darkening with his arousal, “that you should be putting your mouth to far more economical uses.”

“Hmmmmm, maybe you have a point,” America agreed with a nod. “You’re wearing far too much clothing, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” England agreed as America shifted to sit up, hands moving to England’s backside and cupping him, keeping him in his lap as he ducked his head and kissed along England’s neck, nipping with his teeth and listening and indexing every little sound England made.

England’s fingers reached up and began unbuttoning his own shirt as America’s mouth drifted ever downward along his skin, biting at his collar. Wishing to save his shirt from America’s musings, he slipped off the last of the buttons and shrugged out of his shirt, exposing his shoulders and abdomen to America’s questing mouth.

“Ah—ouch,” England murmured.

America pulled away, blinking up at him as he lifted his hands from England’s ass to pull at England’s shirt the rest of the way off his shoulders, where it slipped down and stopped in the crook of his elbows. America pulled off his own shirt, blinking owlishly at England at the small exclamation.

“What is it?”

“Your glasses,” England said, lifting to take the glasses off his face. America looked up at him and England ducked his head to kiss the bridge of his nose before leaning away to place the glasses safely on the side table. He righted himself soon enough, one of America’s hands straying to his hip and the other cupping the back of his head. England grinned at him, feeling stupidly scatterbrained, and wondered if America often felt like this. “There. Carry on, my dear.”

America ducked his head again, happily, kissing over England’s collarbone and lavishing him with attention. He kissed around the knot of his tie, still in place, worked free from the collared shirt and left abandoned around England’s neck. When England’s fingers lifted to twist out the knot and pull the tie away, America’s hands captured England’s, kissing along the fingertips and knuckles, eyes hooded.

England moved with careful precision. His body was slim, but compressed, old scars twisting across his skin and his body moving slowly but confidently, and he arched beneath America’s ministrations. America moved with youthful exuberance. He wasn’t sure what he was doing and where he was going, but he was going to get there, and that’s all that mattered. His body was young, golden, bulky in places (he’d been on a diet!) but nevertheless responsive to England’s careful touches.

So when America’s hands went to England’s belt, he fumbled and took longer than strictly necessary, but was no less eager. His fingers worked diligently at pushing down England’s pants, pushing down his underwear, and leaving him naked save for the tie and the shirt he still hadn’t shrugged off completely.

England, on the other hand, smiled a slow smile, almost smirk, and dropped one hand down, slowly but deftly removing America’s belt and popping the snap of his jeans.

He sat up and off America, shimmying slowly out of his pants and America stared at him, leaning back to appreciate the view. England flushed, and looked away—he picked the strangest times to be prudish, America thought—but finished his task, kicking away his clothing and shrugging from his shirt. He crawled over towards America again, one hand untying the knot of his tie and pulling it from his neck slowly, lips quirked into a small smirk.

Oh god, he’s naked, was the only coherent thought America could think to have before all rational thought washed away when England leaned in to kiss him again, to dominate his mouth.

His hands grasped America’s hips, curled around his jeans and boxers, and pulled down and off his body. America stretched out his legs to accommodate him, feeling his face and body flush as hungry eyes took in America’s naked form.

England smiled, pressing kisses to America’s naked thighs.

“Uh, England,” America whined as England peppered his lips along America’s thighs and hips. God, it felt good. But… “You forgot my socks.”

England paused, looking down to see that America’s white socks had been neglected, and the only remaining article of clothing on his body. He rolled his eyes, chuckling low in his throat, his voice still dropped an octave, still huskier and thicker than usual.

He ran his fingers, feather-light, down the length of one of America’s legs. “Leave it to you,” he said quietly, “To worry about looking unglamorous in a situation like this.”

“Uhnnnn,” America moaned as one of England’s hands passed over his stiffening cock before drifting down.

He tugged off his socks for him, laying haphazard kisses along America’s knees and shins. He moved with gentle care over America’s injured foot, removing the sock slowly, trying not to jar the ankle joint. He tossed the socks over his shoulders, brushing his fingers over the back of his legs now, fingers massaging his calves as his lips traveled up the length of the bone in his shin. England worked his way back up America, kissing his thighs and his hips and avoiding the place where America wanted him to kiss.

“England,” America whined, and England looked up, eyes dark and trained only on him. America’s fingers curled into England’s hair and held firm. He licked his lips, arching slightly.

He must have recognized that look because he smiled, softly, and leaned up to kiss America’s jaw. “All in good time.”

“Uhnn,” America moaned again as England’s hands pressed along his body.

“I want you to lie back, sweetheart,” England told him, lips ghosting along his jaw as he pushed America back onto his back. “I’ll take care of you for tonight. No sense hurting your foot more.”

“Nnh,” America sighed, lips parted and shivering as England’s hands roamed over his body, taking him in greedily. “England…” England shivered. Hearing his name with a voice like that—! America made more breathless noises, coherency gone for the time being.

England leaned in close, breath brushing America’s ear. “You didn’t happen to buy lube, I don’t suppose?”

“I didn’t think to look,” America whispered, and looked apologetic.

England kissed his forehead. “No matter, we’ll be able to make do.”

He stood up and America almost protested the sudden absence of England’s warmth. He reached out and grabbed his wrist, fingers holding firm. England looked vaguely surprised before looking amused, and brushed his fingers over America’s knuckles.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

He pulled away and exited to the bathroom. He came back a short moment later, carrying the lotion from the complimentary gift baskets the hotel left its customers. He popped the cap, squirting a liberal amount onto his hand.

He crawled back onto the bed, over America, straddling him and rubbing his hands together. America, panting and straining and moaning, stared up at him, longing to touch him. He whispered his name and England responded with a smile.

“Are you going to—uh. I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ll learn,” England murmured. “You’re a quick learner, aren’t you? This is only the second time, so it’s to be expected.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I’ll teach you,” England whispered and rolled his hips against America’s, their cocks brushing together and making America throw his head back. England continued, breathlessly, “All in good time.”

America didn’t answer, as he was too busy bucking his hips up to get more contact with England. He didn’t know the mechanics of this but kind of knew the basics—it was impossible not to know, when you were friends with France—and he spread his legs a little, still rolling up and trying to meet England.

“I recall you saying you disliked the missionary position—found it boring,” England said, surprisingly calm and amusement flickering in his green eyes. “Once your foot is better, you should be able to handle other strains and positions. This isn’t quite the same as the missionary, but I hope you’ll forgive me for leaving you on your back tonight.”

“Huh? Uh—it’s fine. S’awesome.”

“Hmm, indeed,” England murmured.

England’s hands dropped away, finished rubbing together, and one hand planted itself firmly on America’s hip and the other pushed behind England’s back. The hand on his hip was warm, not cool, as he’d expected with the lotion. America stilled, preparing himself for England’s fingers to penetrate him, but didn’t feel anything. America realized that England wasn’t pushing the lotion-covered fingers into America, but rather into himself. He arched slightly and America pushed himself up onto his elbows, frowning.

“Hey… aren’t you were going to…”

“I thought I’d give you the night off, my darling,” England said breathless, and with the nickname America felt his stomach drop away and flood him with warmth. “I said I’ll take care of you. But if you wish to do something…” He nodded down to where his cock strained, neglected. “Then…”

America eagerly reached out his hand and grasped England with his palm.

“Ah—wait.”

America hated to wait but England held out his free hand, coated with lotion. America opened his palm and England brushed his palm over America’s, transferring the lotion. Their hands pressed palm to palm for a moment and America even curled his fingers, intertwining their fingers a moment before England laughed, breathless, and America had to respond, arching and laughing despite himself, despite this entire situation. Now America’s palm slipped easily over England’s cock, and England gasped quietly, eyes shutting as he worked on stretching and preparing himself for America. From his position, America couldn’t know what exactly England was doing, how many fingers were pushed inside him, but he could appreciate the way England arched and bit back gasps and swallowed his moans. He watched his pale throat, envisioned himself kissing the column of his neck and sucking his adam’s apple into his mouth. For the time being, he focused on pumping England’s cock. England shivered, arching slightly as America’s fingers gripped and brushed over the sensitive skin, thumb swirling along the head with an ease that surprised, but no less pleased, England.

“Oh—yes,” England breathed, eyes squeezed shut tightly. “Right there, my lovely.” America repeated the gesture, inwardly squirming over the name. He gripped tightly at the base and lessened his hold until it was so light, almost nonexistent, at his tip. Before dragging his hand back down, he swirled his thumb along the head, thumbing at the slit and passing over the sensitive, flushed skin. He kept his hand moving, trying to summon more of his coos and endearments. England must have noticed his expression, however, as he leaned over, brushing his knuckles along America’s cheek. “What is it?”

America shook his head. “S’nothing. Just…”

“Yes?” England asked, fingers trailing down his neck, over his shoulders, over his chest.

“Not used to it.”

“To what?”

“Pet names,” America breathed, eyes flickering to meet England’s.

England smiled, and despite the heat of the situation, the way that America could feel the hardness of England’s cock as he pressed up against his hand, his smile still seemed almost sad. He lifted a hand and stroked America’s face again.

“Should I stop?”

“No,” America breathed. “I like them.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“Alright then,” England murmured, mostly to himself. His cheeks were bright red.

America watched him, feeling as if he should be anticipating something. He was right.

“… My beautiful America,” England murmured, eyes locked with his, gauging his reaction.

“Yes,” America gasped, eyes shutting as England’s hand dropped away from his face and settled on his cock, pumping up and down and mimicking the movements of America’s own hand. Taken aback, America’s hand stilled, but both of England’s kept moving, fisting America and preparing himself.

“My darling,” England cooed.

America moaned, tilting his head to the side and arching up against England’s hand. England’s mouth kissed every available inch of America’s skin, murmuring out names and mouthing the endearments into his skin until America was crying for him and simply wouldn’t stop.

“England… England… England…!”

“I’m here,” England promised.

England paused, drawing the hand out of himself and reaching for the lotion. He squirted more onto his fingers, rubbing his fingers together before returning to his task. He hissed out low as the cool lotion touched him and he pushed his fingers inside. England’s fingers worked into himself, preparing and stretching and pushing. He cringed only once, and otherwise didn’t betray anything on his face. He bent down to kiss America, and when America fisted his hand over England’s cock, England arched back and away, tipping his head back and moaning low in his throat. America arched to meet him, kissing at his throat and chest and shoulders, lips pillowing and tongue laving across his skin.

Soon, England straightened, hand falling away to grasp America around the base of his cock, causing a small cry to push past the nation’s constrained throat. Face darkened with desire, England stared down at America, eyes locking.

“Condom?” he asked.

“A—oh.”

America swiveled his head around, searching out where he’d left the package. With a shaking hand, he grabbed it from the nightstand and fumbled with the packaging, trying to open the box and pull out one of the condoms.

England remained ever patient, and held out his hand when, finally, America managed to rip one free. He peeled away the foil and took the latex, preparing America. America watched him, his throat constricted and his chest heaving as he surveyed the work. England’s hands were soft, working diligently and only with the slightest of wavers. Then, blushing, he dragged his fingers over America’s length before grasping him more firmly and positioning himself over him.

“England…” America began.

“Yes?” England whispered, face bright red and having to look away.

“Will it hurt?” America whispered, his heart in his throat.

“For a little while,” England murmured back, breath hushed.

“But—”

England didn’t let America finish his thought. He inched himself onto America and the both of them froze as the head of America’s cock breached the ring of muscles. America bit his lip, watching England’s face for any signs of discomfort. England stayed perfectly still a moment, breathing in and out through his nose and body stiff. But steadily, the lines in his face relaxed and the rest of him soon followed, sinking down onto America.

After several moments of this, England, quivering, pulled his hand away from America’s cock and planted both hands on the bed, one hand on either side of America’s head. America looked up at him, moved his hands to grip England’s hips. England pushed down a little more. He cried out, low in his throat, and only just managed to swallow it. America lifted his hands, cupping England’s face, thumbing along the bottom of his eyes to catch the spare moments of moisture England liked to pretend didn’t exist. England closed his eyes, ducking his head and shifting slightly from side to side so he could place a small kiss along each of his wrists. They stayed like that a long moment, as England collected himself.

“Ah… alright?” America asked and then cut off in a gasp as England seated himself fully on America, accommodating him up to his hilt.

England leaned down and kissed America, surprisingly chaste and sweet, given their current position. When America’s eyes fluttered open, England was smiling at him, expression soft.

“I’m fine,” he promised.

“Good,” America breathed. He snagged his fingers into England’s hair, brushing through it before cupping his face. “… Good.”

“Hmm,” England hummed, closing his eyes a moment and basking in the feeling.

Then England rolled his hips, counter-clockwise, and America cried out.

“F-fuck,” America gasped through grit teeth as England continued the gesture, rotating his hips and grinding down on him. England, with his red face and inability to properly express himself, watched America with inquisitive eyes, gauging his reaction and shifting his hips to accommodate whatever created the greatest reaction. “Fu-fuuuuck, England…”

England licked his lips, looked as if he was going to say something, perhaps dirty, and then thought better of it and lifted his hips instead, letting America slip out of him partially before swiveling his hips back downwards and taking America up to his hilt again. He stooped to capture America’s cries, and against his mouth they were muffled. He swallowed them greedily, nibbling at America’s bottom lip absently and passing his tongue over it when it swelled under his kisses.

“A-ah…” England began, then whispered against his mouth, “Like that?”

America couldn’t articulate a response right away, but soon enough found his bearings. He smoothed his hands over England’s hips, over his thighs, down along his backside and up along his thigh. He bit his kiss-swollen lips and nodded his head.

“Understatement,” he gasped out.

England leaned down, so he pressed flush up against America.

“Alright, my darling?” he murmured, looking at America.

England pressed his hand to America’s forehead, wiping away the sweat and leaning down to kiss his brow, lingering there. America tilted his head back and kissed at the underside of England’s chin as England set a steady rhythm, up and down and punctuated the movement with a rotation of his hips.

“Yes—” America gasped. “Yes—fuck, yes. England.”

England smiled, slow and gentle, shifting his hips and causing America to cry out again. He lifted his own hand again, brushing his knuckles and the back of his fingertips over America’s cheek. America’s eyes fluttered before falling shut. The fingers brushed aside the hair from his forehead again and England leaned over, pressing a kiss to his brow, to each eyelid, to each cheek, and to his lips.

He pulled away just as America was about to return the kiss and America blinked his eyes open to stare up at England. He stayed close, though, and their breath mingled, lips brushing. America arched, nuzzled and bumped his nose against England’s and heard the older man laugh, quietly.

They continued. Their pants and groans mingled, America arching in pleasure and England crying out softly whenever the head of America’s cock struck his prostate. They worked in a crescendo, the pattern set and their eyes locking and straying away every so often, eyes closed and fingers wiping away sweat and brushing over parted lips.

America, presently, remembered himself enough to reach out his hand and pump England, shifting his thumb in a swirling circle along the head of England’s cock. England cried out, stilling a moment and shuddering, before resuming his pace, if not a bit more frenzied now.

They continued like this, no words passing between them save for the unspoken language between their movements, the passing of their hands, the glimmers in their eyes. America reached his climax first, the hand straying from England’s cock to grasp both his hips and keep himself fully seated inside England. He bucked up, and froze. He drug his fingers into England’s hips and shuddered. He quivered, spasms shaking his body, and groaned low in his throat as England continued to ride him until America was milked dry and, soft, slipped out of England. England shifted, as if to pull away, but America’s hand on his cock kept him there, and he pumped him until he, , too, reached his release about a minute later.

England stroked America’s face, locking away the look of America’s desire for future reference. America’s eyes were clenched shut, his mouth parted and sweat slick on his forehead. England’s fingers traced the line of his jaw, thumb brushing over his lips. When America opened his eyes again, England was there, leaned over him. When their eyes locked again, England smiled and kissed his nose.

“Good?” he whispered against his lips.

America’s eyes fluttered and he shifted up, capturing England’s lips in a kiss. When he pulled back, his head flopped back onto the pillow and he sighed, relaxing, seeming to sink into the mattress, his entire body mush.

“Christ,” he hissed.

England’s smile shifted into a slight smirk as he laid a haphazard kiss on the corner of America’s lips. He reached down, removing the condom for him. Limp in England’s hand, England brushed his hand over America, then tied off the condom and tossed it into the wastebasket near the bedside. America didn’t move during all of this time and just blinked up at England, face flushed and sated. England wiped his hand against his own stomach, collecting his release in his hand and looking around for a proper place to wipe it away without having to get out of the bed, now warmed by their activities and body heat.

America watched him then shot out a hand, slowly, as if moving through molasses. He captured England’s wrist and drew the hand to him, pressing his mouth against England’s palm. England stifled a moan low in his throat and just surveyed America’s task with hooded eyes.

America smirked and England took his hand back after one final lick. “Don’t get hard again, old man.”

England snorted and smacked his clean hand against America’s head, though the action was negated by the gentle caress that followed, fingers slipping into America’s messy hair. “I’m afraid while I can pride myself in my stamina, I’m not quite that impressive.”

“You make up for it in other impressive ways, I guess,” America said, and did not sound pleased because that was far too sappy. He cleared his throat. “You gonna sit up over the covers all night or are you gonna join me?”

He shimmied under the blankets and held the cover up for England, who rolled his eyes. Though he was unable to hide his amusement. He moved, too, to join him under the blankets.

“Hello,” he said lazily as England squeezed up to his side. Their legs tangled together.

“Hello, sweetheart,” England murmured, brushing slightly damp fringe from America’s forehead. He smiled at him. America smiled back, feeling that it was just as ridiculous looking as he suspected it really was.

“So…” America began.

England gave him a look.

“It’s pillow-talk time, yeah?” America asked, and sounded far too excited, grinning like a fool.

England deadpanned. “Come again?”

“Well I can try—I think my stamina’s better than yours…”

England groaned and closed his eyes. “I am going to pretend you did not just make that horrendous joke.”

America laughed, far too loudly and far too long than was strictly necessary.

England rolled his eyes, blushing despite himself, and looking away. “You’re laughing at your own joke, aren’t you?” This only made America laugh harder. England smacked him. “Stop that!”

“Man, you’re a lot nicer when we’re having sex,” America said, mirth still saturating his voice. England sputtered. “Almost forgot you’re a romantic and a jerk. Somehow you can do both, sheesh.”

“Would you—? Arg. Shut up.”

America curled an arm around England, pulling him closer. He grinned down at England and England closed his eyes and turned his face away, with only the slightest of huffs. But he didn’t pull away. After a moment, the annoyance seemed to fall away in favor of satisfied relaxation, and he sank against the mattress and into America.

“Are you tired?” America asked.

England sighed. “It’s been a long few weeks.”

“Guess so,” America agreed, curling into England, his heart still hammering and his breath still labored. “What’s the likelihood we can do that again soon?”

“Wake me in an hour,” England murmured.

“There are still like nine condoms left,” America said, glancing over at the box on the bedside table.

England groaned low in his throat. “You are being far too optimistic for one night, America.”

“It’s what I do,” America said with a laugh.

England chuckled, his voice still low and throaty. The huskiness was enough to let the warmth pool inside America again. England said, “I suppose we’ll do what we can.”

“Yeah,” America said, watching as England sank into the mattress, looking as if he was rather tired. America nuzzled up to him. “… See you in the morning, England.”

England let out a breathless laugh. “Hmm.”

“Hm,” America agreed, then added, “I bet your ass is gonna hurt in the morning.”

“Not as badly as I’ll make yours hurt in the future,” England replied without missing a beat and smirked when America choked.

 

\---

 

England was indeed a bit sore in the morning, though this was mostly because America was asleep on his arm and had a leg hooked over his hips, and the weight left him feeling slightly bedsore. But he also had no intention of moving, so he wrapped his arms around America’s back, pressing his fingers along his spine, comforted by the feeling of America’s breath on his neck and the sound of his heartbeat beating in time with his.

“Oh, are you awake yet?” England heard America ask.

England blinked his eyes open, and found America watching him, blue eyes warm and reflecting the sunlight peeking through the curtains England only now realized had only been half-drawn. He waited for the fuzzy vision to clear and took in the sight of America in the morning after.

“I’m awake,” England said, though it was unnecessary.

America smiled. “Good. I can take a shower now.”

“You didn’t have to wait for me to wake up for that,” England said with a yawn, drawing a hand away from America’s back to cover his mouth.

“I guess not,” America said with a small shrug, half of his face cushioned by the overly plumped pillow. His smile softened. “But I wanted to be here when you woke up this time.”

England blinked at him in surprise, feeling his heart lodge in his throat. He couldn’t find words, which was just as well because America quickly became embarrassed by the words and looked away, rolling away and sitting up with a stretch and a yawn.

“Well! I can go shower now. I probably smell gross.”

“Hrm,” England said, rolling onto his back and voicing no more words.

America pouted. “You were supposed to say I smell great, ya know.”

“I don’t think it’d be fair for me to lie so horribly to you, America,” England said with another yawn and a stretch, arching his back off the bed.

America watched him.

“You gonna take a shower with me?” America teased. “You don’t exactly smell like roses either, ya know.”

England snorted. “Go take your shower, you fool. Save some hot water for me.”

“‘Kay,” America said, and leaned in, lips puckering up in an obnoxious shape. England rolled his eyes but indulged the boy, kissing him back. But quickly America pulled back, crinkling his nose. He scraped his tongue over his teeth, and England gave him a look he hoped was withering. “Ew. Morning breath.”

“Get out of here, damn you,” England said and kicked at America’s backside until, laughing, the younger nation retreated to the bathroom to take his shower. England watched him leave, enjoying the view of America without clothes, since the boy seemed to have forgotten his modesty for the time being.

England sighed and sank into the bed once America was gone, closing his eyes and feeling a slight smile tug at his mouth. It was strange, how easily things seemed to return to normal, seemed to inconsequential, and yet there was a deep shift. Things seemed so much the same, and yet profoundly different. He felt happier.

America returned a short while later, towel wrapped around his waist and water dripping down his body. England watched him as he dug around in his bag, one hand gripping his towel, searching for clean clothing he could wear. Water droplets dripped off him and England shifted, making himself comfortable in the bed and just watching him. America’s red cheeks betrayed the fact that he knew England was watching.

“Hey,” America said, looking up and catching England’s eye. “Do you think we broke the bed last night?”

“You,” England said with a roll of his eyes, “really are far too optimistic.”

America grinned and, still only in his towel, jumped up onto the bed. The mattress squeaked in protest and America cringed slightly when he landed on his bad foot. England sputtered something, possibly an insult to his stupidity and hurting himself further, but America ignored him, jumping on his one good foot along the bed. The bed whined in protest, but it held firm and sturdy.

“See?” England balked, and then kicked his foot out, sweeping it out and hitting the back of America’s knee lightly so he sank to the bed on his knees. England sat up, amused. “Overly optimistic.”

“I just think it’d be really funny,” America said with a sagely nod. His towel began to slip and he groped at it, keeping it in place but not before England could trace the jut of his hipbone and follow the line of hair from belly button downward.

“You think a lot of things are funny,” England said primly.

“Wanna try and break it?” America asked, and had the audacity to grin wolfishly at England. England snorted, loudly, and stood out of the bed, stretching slightly and finding amusement in the way that America pointedly averted his gaze—it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen him naked already, and he’d just finished saying lewd things, too—and padding over to take his own shower.

“I’ll be back soon,” England promised and closed the door behind him.

America moaned quietly and then fiddled with his bag, pulling out clothing and getting ready for the day. After a short while, England left the bathroom, this time with the towel wrapped around his slim hips. America watched him as England moved with more economic grace than America had, easily pulling clothing from his bag and changing. America swallowed, averting his gaze for half a moment as the towel dropped away before daring to glance back, surveying England’s body with an appreciative eye.

England shifted, and saw America’s eyes on him. Their eyes locked and England raised one eyebrow. He swiveled his hips as he pulled up his pants in a way that made America forget to breathe for a moment. England smirked. America blushed, and walked over to England, hand on his hip. England didn’t look up at him until he’d finished fastening his pants and tightening his belt. Then he looked up at America and kissed him.

“Much better,” America said when he pulled away. “Minty fresh.”

England snorted, brushed his fingers through America’s still wet hair. England stared at him, his brow furrowed but still smiling.

“You,” he said, and his voice lacked bite, “are absolutely ridiculous.”

 

\---

 

They continued moving down California together. They didn’t make it too far, as they seemed rather keen on calling it an early night most nights, staying in a hotel and not rousing from exhaustion-induced sleep until the late morning and early afternoon. They reached L.A. on the seventeenth day.

The only hiccup in their plan was when they both received calls from their bosses wondering just how long they planned on ‘stimulating America’s economy’. This caused America to plummet into a fit of giggles and left England to speak with America’s boss.

Still, they made plans on when they would return—a new world meeting was planned soon and they still needed to get across the country.

 

\---

 

“I told you the zoo was awesome,” America said, the second day of being in Los Angeles, and the day they were planning to keep driving, though now eastward instead of south. They would continue back across the country, on their way back to New York City, in time for the new World Conference. They both had their responsibilities to return to, and yet it seemed like it was worlds away. It seemed as if it’d been a long time since England hadn’t been riding in a car with America. It was the longest time they’d ever spent together in a long time—a time that wasn’t when America was just a colony, or when they fought in the wars together—and it was strange to know that soon it’d be coming to an end.

“Yes, but I don’t recall saying the zoo wouldn’t be,” England said with a roll of his eyes.

“I want to see pandas,” America said. “Pandas are cool. Want to go to San Diego?”

“We can’t,” England said. “You can go see pandas next time you visit China.”

America pouted.

“Don’t do that,” England said with a roll of his eyes.

“I’m not doing anything,” America protested, still pouting.

“We’ll go to San Diego some other time, America. For now, we need to focus on getting back to New York.”

“Yeah…” America said with a sigh. His foot was much better now, to the point where the limp was only noticeable to England because he was looking for it. America was driving, however, after much insistence. England only put up so much of a fight, as he was tired and appreciated the chance just to relax in the passenger seat.

There were still a lot of things left to take care of, as they stepped into this new relationship. They were elated now, high off the fact that it wasn’t a one-sided love. England wondered how long it would take before the feeling would fade, before this strange fluttering he felt (and knew America felt too, because he’d seen the boy press a hand to chest before, discreetly) disappeared or at least settled into something less intense and consuming. He knew it wouldn’t fade away completely, but perhaps turn into something like a burning ember, warm to the touch, but not all-consuming. He tried not to think about it. Soon, it would become normal to them, he hoped. Soon, it would be okay and they would be okay.

They’d work on it all together. They’d be able to trust and believe in one another, they’d be able to be honest. They’d be able to stand next to one another without America worrying that someone was judging him—he was so used to being judged. Soon, it would be as natural as breathing.

“Not tired of me yet, are you?” America asked, grinning and turning back to face England, face pink with pride and happiness.

“My dear,” England said slowly, a soft, fond smile on his face. Almost hesitant. He reached out a hand, touched his cheek, but quickly drew it away. “I cannot tire of you.”

America grabbed his hand before it could fall away completely, and brushed his lips over his knuckles, before he felt embarrassed and had to look away, focusing on driving. His eyes found England again soon enough, however, and he said, with no quaver or hesitancy in his voice: “Good. Because from now on, you’re stuck with me.”


End file.
